


Goldfish

by coincidental_penalties, watchforwalkers



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, One Fic/One Fandom Project, Post Season/Series 02, Prior Canonical Character Death, Violence, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, werewolf convention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:24:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coincidental_penalties/pseuds/coincidental_penalties, https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchforwalkers/pseuds/watchforwalkers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is it about Stiles's bedroom that makes it like Grand Central Station for werewolf creepers? Between Derek's lurking and Peter's terrifying promises, Stiles can barely concentrate on saving all their asses from the next big crisis to hit Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Dog

Stiles feels it as soon as he walks into his dark bedroom, the presence of someone else in there, someone who doesn’t belong. He freezes just inside his doorway and listens; yep, faint sound of breathing coming from the bed. Must be another epic werewolf crisis in Werewolfville. Before he even turns on the lights he says, more muttering to himself than actually saying it aloud, “Derek, seriously, the creeper–wolf thing’s gotta stop. I’m tired, okay? You can come back and threaten me tomorrow.”

When there’s no answer, Stiles flips on the lights and yelps “Oh Jesus!” as he takes a stumbling leap backwards.

“Hello again, Stiles,” Peter Hale ( _Peter_ Hale, Peter sociopathic–psycho–killer _Hale_ ) says. He reclines back against Stiles’s pillows, his fingers laced together behind his head like he’s perfectly content lying there waiting for Stiles. _Waiting for Stiles_. 

“What is with you people?” Stiles blurts out. Blurting. He’s really good at that. “Is this a Hale thing? Do you guys have just no sense of personal boundaries, like, at _all_?”

Peter chuckles, this creepy–as–hell look of amusement crossing his face. “Stiles. That’s no way to treat a guest.”

“You? You are not a guest,” Stiles says. He takes another step back, until his back hits the wall, the light switch stabbing him in his shoulder blade. “I don’t make a habit of inviting psychotic werewolves to hang out in my bedroom.”

“And yet, it happens so frequently,” Peter replies. “Now, what should we make of that, do you think?”

“Look, can you just…just go about your business, and I won’t mention seeing you, and we’ll just call it square, alright?” Stiles babbles. He continues to try to back away, though the wall hasn’t changed its mind about being a, you know, solid wall-like object behind him, and that light switch is probably going to leave a bruise in the groove underneath his shoulder blade. “If you need me to, uh, look something up for you, you can just leave it there on the desk, and that—”

“Stiles,” Peter interrupts. His voice is soft, Stiles can barely hear it over the sound of his own running off at the mouth, but it’s enough to shut him up right away. “You know, I’ve never offered anyone the bite twice.”

Stiles feels like a goldfish, a giant terrified goldfish with its stupid goldfish mouth flapping, opening and closing with little _bloop_ sound effects. “I, uh—I’m flattered, I just. Uh, I’ve really gotta—” He tries to spin to his right, roll around the doorframe and out of his room, but faster than Stiles can blink or breathe, Peter’s right there in front of him, palm pressed against the wall next to Stiles’s head.

“I _said_ ,” Peter enunciates clearly. His teeth (his oh thank God still human teeth) are very white and very close to Stiles’s face. “I’ve never offered twice. This isn’t an offer, Stiles. I’m just being polite enough to inform you that it’s happening so you can relax and enjoy it.” Stiles eyes widen and he tries to duck under Peter’s arm, but Peter’s other hand shoots out and grabs Stiles by his wrist, sharp claws digging into the skin. “Or don’t. Either way could be fun.”

Stiles squinches his eyes closed and tries to curl back against the wall, as far from Peter as possible. He hears a _woomph_ , feels a rush of air and Peter’s claws slicing against his wrist as they pull away, then his room shakes with a loud thump. Stiles opens one eye, not uncurling his body from against the wall. 

Derek is standing in the middle of Stiles’s room, glaring at Peter, who has just ass-planted onto the carpet. Derek doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that Stiles is there; he just keeps glaring at Peter and occasionally almost-lifting his foot, like he’s going to stomp on Peter if he tries to get up. 

“Derek?” Stiles blurts—again with the blurting. “What are you—you know what? I’m not even—just, _what_ is going on, why is there a werewolf convention in my freaking bedroom?”

“You’re late,” Peter says from his spot on the floor. He wipes his hand across the back of his mouth; it comes away with a red smear. “Stiles expected you fifteen minutes ago. Apparently I’m cutting in on your stalking.”

Derek growls, low in his throat, and he does look very briefly at Stiles before staring at Peter more. “What did you think you were doing, _Uncle_?”

“What?” Peter asks, with a theatrical shrug. “You’re the only member of the family who gets to make playthings out of broken children?” He slowly turns his face towards Stiles and smiles. He has blood on his teeth. “I thought we were starting a collection.”

“He’s not a broken child!” Derek says angrily, then appears to collect himself. “And. They aren’t my playthings, Peter. Not that you would know.” Derek huffs and his scowl grows deeper. 

“You guys, uh, seem like you have some things you need to, uh,” Stiles mutters as he takes a long sidestep to the door of his bedroom, “talk about, so I’m just gonna—”

Peter launches himself off the floor in a blur, catching Derek around the torso and knocking both of them back into Stiles’s wall shelf. The shelf tilts and all the contents tumble onto the floor with a crash. 

“Hey! That’s my baseball trophy!” Stiles shouts.

Derek pushes at Peter’s shoulders, then grabs them, flinging Peter towards the desk with another growl. Stiles’s monitor falls back and his keyboard flies off the desk, knocking off a container of paperclips and thumbtacks. 

“Oh my God! You’re breaking all my—how am I going to explain this to my dad?” 

Neither of them even look at Stiles, and Derek shoves Peter towards the wall before Peter is on his feet. Peter dives at Derek, teeth and claws bared, and knocks over Stiles’s lacrosse gear, which is pretty much the point at which Stiles hits his limit and grabs the squirt bottle he stuck on the bookshelf a couple of months ago to fuck with Scott.

“No!” Stiles yells, squirting Derek and Peter with the squirt bottle. “Bad dog! BAD DOG!”

Derek springs back from Peter and stares at Stiles, looking very affronted. “Did you just _squirt_ me?” he asks, voice deadly quiet. 

Stiles looks at the squirt bottle in his hand, then over at Derek. “Uh. No?”

“Did you just squirt Peter?” Derek asks next, and this time, he sounds like he might not be quite as pissed. 

“Dude, he said he was going to bite me!” Stiles says. “That’s not cool! You can’t just come into people’s houses and threaten to bite them.” He doesn’t actually answer whether or not he squirted Peter, something neither of them will notice, hopefully. He tries to set the squirt bottle back on the bookshelf without calling too much attention to it, but it falls off the shelf, knocking books down with it.

“I’m pretty sure I can, actually,” Peter points out. 

“No, Stiles is right,” Derek says, looking like it almost pains him to admit it. “You shouldn’t do that, Peter.”

“You see?” Stiles says. “That’s right. I’m right!”

Peter rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. “Not tonight, then. I’m sure we’ll have another opportunity to finish this little talk in the near future.” He smiles at Stiles again, and yeah, it’s still pretty damn creepy. “It’s a small town.”

“Leave.” Derek points to the window.

“I have somewhere to be, anyway,” Peter says, as he climbs out the window. He turns and wiggles the fingers on one hand in a little wave. “I’ll be seeing you, Stiles.”

“Derek, is the creeper thing genetic, or is it just you guys?” Stiles asks… _after_ Peter’s gone.

Derek turns his head away from the window and studies Stiles silently. “Is this the first time he’s been here?”

“That I know of? Yeah,” Stiles says. “But who even knows with you people? I feel like I need to check my shelves for hidden cameras.”

“That’s not necessary.” Derek turns to look at the ruins of Stiles’s room anyway, like _he_ might check for said hidden cameras. 

“Yeah, pretty sure it might be,” Stiles grumbles to himself. He starts picking up the books and the squirt bottle, setting them all back on the bookshelf. 

“You’re hurt.” Derek crosses the room, his eyebrows moving up infinitesimally. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s no big deal,” Stiles says. He looks down at the gouges around his wrist. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll put some Neosporin on it.”

Derek frowns. He starts to raise one hand, then puts it back down. “Be sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“Yeah,” Stiles responds. He picks his keyboard up and sets it back on his desk. “Look, can you just—wait, why were you here?”

Derek briefly looks startled, then he goes back to the same usual expression. “I had a question. For your research.”

“Lay it on me, then, so you can go, and I can clean up this mess the two of you made out of my room before my dad gets home and thinks I mixed Adderall and cold medicine again,” Stiles sighs. 

“I’ll…help.” Derek bends down and starts picking up paper clips. “It’s not urgent. There’s an interesting line about ‘hunting clans’. It doesn’t seem to mean the hunters.”

“‘Hunting clans’?” Stiles shakes his head. “I’ll see what I can find. Just leave me whatever source documents you’ve got and I’ll see. No promises. I might be busy installing a security system or something.”

“Right.” Derek pulls out a folded bundle of photocopies and hands them to Stiles without bothering to flatten them. “If you install the security system, you should have it automatically place a telephone call.” As soon as Stiles takes the papers, Derek turns and leaves. 

“Oh, yeah I’ll…” Stiles sighs when he realizes Derek is gone and he’s standing in the middle of his bedroom talking to himself. Again. “Do that. I’ll definitely do that.”


	2. No Dog Jokes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles needs a dog whistle, so Scott will answer, and a collar with a bell for Derek, so he'll have some warning.

Either the squirt bottle worked or Derek and Peter are working through their family issues somewhere else, or both maybe, because Stiles doesn’t see hide nor tail of any werewolf but Scott for the next three days. Scott (Allison issues aside) is a low-maintenance werewolf by comparison to the Hales, and the two of them play video games and sneak junk food so Stiles’s dad doesn’t know he’s missing out on anything. All in all, it’s a laid back few days, downright relaxing actually, which of course means that trouble finds Stiles.

Four days after the double-decker Hale home invasion, Stiles exits the supermarket with some of those multigrain sandwich thin things and some reduced-calorie ice cream for his dad. He opens the door of his Jeep to climb in with the bag, and immediately stumbles backwards, dropping his groceries.

“Jesus, Derek! You can’t just be in my Jeep!”

Derek slumps down in the passenger seat, all pasty and gross-looking, which doesn’t in any way stop him from trying to glare a hole through Stiles. “I think your bread is squashed now.” He punctuates the sentence by starting to puke. 

“Dude. _Dude!_ You are puking in my car!” Stiles’s arms wave around without any purpose, since it’s not like he can stop the puking or physically remove Derek from the Jeep, especially not from outside the driver’s side. “That’s _not okay_!”

Derek doesn’t stop puking, though. He does half-heartedly attempt to open the door, presumably to puke on the pavement, but his attempt is just that, an attempt, and black puke goes down the inside of the door. Great, so not just regular sick. Were-sick. Perfect.

“Are you dying again? Why are you always dying _in my car_?” Stiles shouts. He scoops up his bag of groceries and throws them into the backseat as he climbs into the Jeep. “What is it with you people? Why does it always have to be me?”

Derek moans kind of pitifully, trying to wipe his mouth on his shirt, but then he just starts puking again before he can give Stiles any sort of actual answer. 

“Oh. Oh, God, that is disgusting,” Stiles says. He tries not to gag while he starts the car and rolls down his window. “That’s seriously dis—hey, Derek, you look _really_ bad. Seriously, did you get shot again or something?”

He shakes his head, moaning again, and this time he just leans his head on the window. “Peter. Poison.”

“Great. Psycho werewolf uncle isn’t enough, let’s just add some poison,” Stiles mutters to himself. “Okay, so I should call poison control or take you to the hospital or—”

Derek pukes again, then manages to force out, “Wolfsbane,” before puking even more. 

“Peter poisoned you with wolfsbane?” Stiles asks. He’s got to be misunderstanding this, because of all the puking and the dying. “You’re a _werewolf_. Don’t you have like, super-senses or something? How did Peter poison you with wolfsbane?”

“Little bits.” Derek stops and holds up his hand, more of the black puke pouring out of him. “Last few days.”

“And you didn’t notice that, oh, you were slowly _dying_ or anything? Nothing about the wolfsbane stood out? Like how it smells like it might lead to puking black death... in my _car_?” Stiles smacks his hand against the steering wheel and drives a little faster. “How stupid do you have to be to eat wolfsbane?”

Derek lifts his head and glares at Stiles. “Shut up.” He pauses before narrowing his eyes. “Where are you taking me, Stiles?”

“Thought I’d just drop you off at home, let Peter finish you off and deal with the clean-up himself,” Stiles snaps. “Maybe get him to detail my Jeep while he’s at it. I’m taking you to my house, idiot.”

Derek huffs but doesn’t respond, only puking two more times on the drive home. Once they’re back at Stiles’s place, Stiles helps Derek out of the Jeep and walks him into the house, still stinking like black death. 

“Okay, when people get poisoned, you’re supposed to help them get it out of their systems, right?” Stiles asks. He’s not really expecting an answer from Derek so much as he’s speaking aloud. “Right, so, shower. You should put you in the shower.”

Derek shrugs, still glowering, and walks right into Stiles’s bathroom and turns on the water, stopping once to puke, this time thankfully into the sink. Right, because the toilet was too far away, that makes sense. 

“You should turn up the hot water and, uh, sweat it out,” Stiles instructs. “I’ll just leave you to that, shout for me if you need anything.” He starts to walk out of the bathroom, when Derek grabs Stiles by the legs and growls. “Hey! Paws off. I’m helping you here.”

That earns Stiles another growl, this one accompanied by a sort of pleading look, and Derek looks at the tub, then at himself, then back at the tub before glancing expectantly up at Stiles. Stiles sighs and awkwardly puts his arm under Derek’s, helping him step over the edge of the tub and under the water pouring from the shower. 

“You’re showering with your clothes on,” Stiles announces. “Or you’re just gonna have to figure out how to manage it on your own.”

Derek tries to stand up, then falls against Stiles and the wall with a thump. “I’ll sit,” he says, glaring at the tub like it’s personally responsible for his poisoning.

“Yeah, good idea, big guy,” Stiles mutters as he helps lower Derek to the floor of the tub. “Inspired, even.” Once Derek’s sitting under the shower spray, Stiles grabs a towel for himself and starts drying off his face and arms, and dabbing futilely at his shirt. “Yeah, so I need to put on something dry and not smeared with your werewolf death-vomit. Can you try not to die while I’m changing? Please?”

“I’ll do my best,” Derek rasps out, slumping against the shower walls as he slowly gets drenched. 

Once Stiles is in his bedroom, he pulls off his wet shirt and tosses it onto the ground. He grabs the top t-shirt out of his shirt drawer, plus a dry pair of jeans from the drawer below, then kicks off his wet jeans and puts on his dry clothes. After that, he calls Scott, who doesn’t answer, and leaves a long rambling message about how some werewolves shouldn’t even have phones if they aren’t going to answer them in a crisis, _ever_. 

“Okay. Think. Poisoned werewolf in the bathroom.” Stiles paces back and forth across his room while he continues, “Nothing could possibly go wrong with that, right? Okay, got to get the poisoned werewolf _out_ of the bathroom. Right. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, then mutters to himself, “Please don’t let there be anymore puking.”

Derek’s straightened a bit, and he stares at Stiles when he re-enters the bathroom. His clothes are completely sodden, and his hair is plastered to his head. He looks a little perkier, or he’s not puking anymore at least.

“You want to stay in there?” Stiles asks him.

Derek frowns, and the stare shifts back to glare-territory again. “The water’s going to get cold,” Derek says flatly.

“So you want to get out?”

“I want to be dry again.”

“So you want to get out,” Stiles says. “Okay, let me just, uh.” He turns off the water and looks at Derek sitting at the bottom of the tub, soaking wet and miserable-looking. “I think you’ll need a few more towels, so just—”

Stiles bolts out of the bathroom and down the hall, where he grabs a stack of towels from the linen closet. He probably needs one of those big bath sheet things, or maybe a wool blanket, but a bunch of towels will have to do. Derek is still limp and glare-tastic in the tub.

“You need some help out of there?” Stiles asks. “Not planning to puke anymore, right?”

“Next time I’ll try to control my uncontrollable urge to puke,” Derek says, not making any effort to move. 

“Oh, hey, sarcasm,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek by the forearm and bracing himself against the side of the tub to haul Derek up to his feet. “That’s great. I’ll just keep on cleaning up your puke and making sure you don’t die, and you can make sure the quota for sarcastic comments gets filled.”

Derek stumbles out of the tub, dripping puddles onto the bathroom floor, and instead of answering Stiles, he reverts right back to the tried and true glare. Stiles ignores him and drapes a towel across Derek’s shoulders. Derek raises one eyebrow, seemingly surprised.

“What?” Stiles asks. “Someone’s gotta help your gimpy self out of the bathroom. I already changed my clothes once, I don’t want you soaking me.” He pauses for a second and looks Derek up and down. “Hey, werewolves can’t shake themselves dry, can they?”

Derek’s glare intensifies, and he shakes his head once, scowling. “Do your dog experiments with Scott, not me.”

“I’m getting a dog _whistle_ for Scott,” Stiles grumbles to himself. “I don’t even know why he has a phone.” He holds one arm out for Derek to hold on to if he wants, and because he just can’t help it, adds, “So, I guess I shouldn’t tell you to heel, huh?”

Derek growls and pushes Stiles against the nearest wall. He’s obviously still not up to strength, but he manages to pin Stiles between Derek and the wall.

“Whoa! Whoa, hey!” Stiles’s arms flail and he tries unsuccessfully to shove Derek off of him. “Cleaned up your puke! Trying to help you!”

Apparently shoving Stiles against the wall used up the little bit of strength that Derek had left, because he makes a strange face and then slumps against Stiles, all without comment. 

“Oh, holy crap, are you dying? Don’t die on me! This is not okay!” Stiles catches most of Derek’s body weight, which is about three times more than it looks, and it looks like a lot. “Derek, if you’re dying, give me some warning here!”

“I’m not dying.” Even weak, Derek manages to sound pretty scornful. “I need to lie down. In dry clothes.”

“Sure, yeah, who wouldn’t want dry clothes?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his tone soothing. “Let’s go do that, and we don’t have any more wall-slamming or growling or anything like that.” He tilts his shoulder towards Derek, so that most of Derek’s weight can hang across Stiles’s shoulders. “C’mon, I can probably find you some sweat pants or something.”

“Yours?” Derek looks almost confused, or confused for Derek, anyway.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’d fit in my pants and—whoa, hey, I did _not_ mean that how it sounded!”

Derek mutters something under his breath that could have been ‘why not’, but then he looks expectantly at Stiles, like dry pants are going to fall out of the ceiling magically. Stiles shoulders Derek’s weight as best he can, and the two of them stagger down the hall to Stiles’s room. Stiles does his best to spread another towel out on the foot of his bed.

“Here, sit,” Stiles instructs Derek. Derek glares at him without speaking. “It wasn’t a dog joke. Sit here so I can get you some dry pants.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but he slowly sits down, still glaring a bit. Stiles goes into his dad’s room and rifles through his dresser until he finds a pair of Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. He carries them back into his bedroom.

“I hope you’re okay with law enforcement fashion because— _oh holy shit Derek why?_ ” Derek is standing unsteadily in the middle of the room, completely naked, his wet clothes in a small pile off to one side. When he hears Stiles, he pauses in the middle of toweling himself off, still looking sick, but pleased with himself.

“You’re naked. In my room. You’re naked in my room.”

Derek slowly looks down at himself, then back at Stiles, and nods. “Very observant of you.”

Stiles tries to rein in his inner goldfish, but probably does a crappy job of it, so he just chucks the clothes in Derek’s direction and averts his eyes towards the ceiling. “Three minutes. I was gone for three freaking minutes. You could have waited for _three freaking minutes_ , Derek.”

“You wanted to watch me undress?” Derek asks, and Stiles can’t quite place the meaning of his tone. It’s almost confusion, but not exactly. 

“What? _No!_ I wanted to give you some clothes and then _leave the room_ ,” Stiles says. “Which I’m doing now. I’m leaving the room now.” He starts backing towards the door. “Just, uh. Howl if you need anything. Like, uh, grass or something.”

Derek scowls deeply, but then suddenly stretches, still completely naked. He drops his arms back down to his side and growls. "No. Dog. Jokes."


	3. Large Canine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek come to a broth-related accord. Stiles and Peter have an interesting discussion.

Stiles is of the strong opinion that soup heated up in the microwave tastes really bad, and that the stovetop is the only acceptable way to heat it up. Even if it’s just chicken broth right out of the can, it’s got to go on the stove, and that means Stiles has a couple of minutes to make some calls.

First, he calls Scott again, on the off chance that he’ll actually pick up. This time, Stiles doesn’t even bother leaving a message, though he does commit to buying that dog whistle. The second call he makes is to the veterinary clinic. 

“Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic,” Deaton says smoothly after a single ring.

“Yeah, I have a, uh… sick, uh… _large animal_. Here at my house.”

Deaton must not recognize Stiles’s voice or what he’s talking about, because he just keeps talking calmly, like nothing at all is strange. “What kind of animal is it? I only treat domesticated species.”

“Uh, well, you’ve treated this… species in the past,” Stiles says. “It’s a very, _very_ large, uh. Canine-type species. That I have here. At my house.”

“Stiles?” Deaton asks. “Are we speaking of the… leader of this species?”

“Oh, I can definitely confirm it’s the alpha male,” Stiles says. “I can confirm that, like, way more than I really think I should be able to.”

“Very well. What kind of symptoms is he displaying? Do you know the origin of his illness?”

“He ate—uh, got fed something he shouldn’t. We’ll just say it was the opposite of catnip.”

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end, followed by some indistinct muttering. “I believe I have an appropriate medicine,” Deaton finally says. “I need to know more about how he presented, however.”

“Puking,” Stiles explains. “Lots of puking. Copious. Yeah, I’d definitely describe it as _copious_ puking. Really nasty copious puking.”

“Ah, yes. I have just the thing, then. If you come to the clinic, I’ll have it ready for you.”

“Sure, yeah. That’s great, thanks,” Stiles says. “I’m gonna try—well, I’ve got to take care of one thing first, and then I’ll drive over. So, yeah, thanks!”

“I’ll see you soon, Stiles,” Deaton says, then the line goes dead.

“Yeah, you’ll see me as soon as I feed broth to a puking werewolf,” Stiles mutters to himself, taking the pot off the stove and pouring some of the broth into a bowl. “Because this is perfectly normal. This is a perfectly normal high school teenage thing to do. This is my life now.”

Stiles carries the bowl and a spoon down the hallway to his room. Derek is curled up in the middle of Stiles’s bed, his head tucked against his knees and his feet barely visible. His arms are wrapped around his legs and he looks even paler than when Stiles went to warm up the broth.

“Dammit, Derek,” Stiles sighs, setting the bowl down on his bookshelf. “This cute puppy crap makes it a little hard not to like you.” He approaches his bed cautiously, because he wouldn’t put it past Derek to wake up in a snarling were-fury and take a chunk out of Stiles’s hand. “Hey. Hey, Derek. You’re alive, right?” 

Derek snuffles the bed, but doesn’t appear to be waking up or anywhere close to waking up. Stiles sidles the rest of the way to his bed and places one tentative hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Derek?”

Derek’s chest almost twitches, and even though his eyes don’t open, his hand snaps up and grabs Stiles by the wrist. He holds Stiles’s arms for a few seconds, breathing deeply, and then opens his eyes. “What is that?”

“That’s… my arm.”

Derek snorts and almost pushes Stiles’s wrist as he releases it. “That smell. That smell is not your arm.”

“It might be my arm,” Stiles protests. “You don’t even know what it is. It could be my arm.”

“I don’t want to eat your arm.” Derek pauses and sighs heavily. “As sustenance.”

Stiles pulls his arm away and clutches it to his chest. “Oh, yeah, that’s, uh— _broth_! I made broth.”

“Broth,” Derek repeats. “You made broth.” He pushes himself into a sitting position, but he’s still a little shaky and pasty. 

“Not from an actual chicken or anything,” Stiles says, not that he has to justify his broth to every werewolf who pukes all over his Jeep and passes out on his bed. “I _heated_ broth. It came in a can.”

“Of course it did.” Derek holds his hand out. 

“Or, you know, _thank you_ ,” Stiles grumbles, picking up the bowl and handing it to Derek. “That could work, too.”

Derek takes the bowl and immediately almost drops it. Stiles dives for the bowl, which puts him uncomfortable close to the middle of Derek’s chest. As soon as it’s obvious that Derek’s not about to spill broth all over Stiles’s bed, Stiles quickly backs away. 

“What, do I have to feed you, too?” Stiles asks. 

Derek glares at him, pointedly tightening his grip. “How long was I asleep?”

“Fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty?” Stiles says. He rubs his hand over his face and across his hair. “I guess it could have been more like twenty-five. Or ten, I guess. Me and time, it’s not always a linear relationship.”

“The broth is… good,” Derek says, sounding surprised.

“Yeah, you’ve got to heat it up on the stovetop. If you microwave it, it just tastes like salt.” Stiles shrugs. “My dad taught me that. He used to have to heat up a lot of broth. For, uh. For my mom.”

Derek nods slowly, eating more of the broth but not commenting on Stiles’s words. 

“Did you want some more?” Stiles asks him. “I have to run an errand, so I can get some more before I go. Or I can get you something else while I’m out, as long as you promise not to puke on my bed while I’m gone.”

“An errand?” Derek frowns, then shakes his head. “I should sleep more. Unless I shouldn’t?”

“I’m not a werewolf poisoning expert or anything,” Stiles says. “You look like you should probably sleep more. You aren’t gonna die in your sleep or anything, right?”

Derek shakes his head again. “No.”

“Then probably, yeah. Sleep sounds like a good idea.” Stiles puts his hand out for the empty bowl. Derek looks confused for a few seconds before putting the bowl into Stiles’s hand.

“No broth on your bed,” Derek says, like a smartass, and as soon as Stiles has the bowl, Derek lies back down, straight back into his ball.

“Yeah, that cute puppy crap is _so_ not okay,” Stiles says under his breath as he walks out of his room. He puts Derek’s empty bowl in the sink, grabs his keys, and walks to his Jeep. The overpowering odor of werewolf death-puke hits him as soon as he opens the door, and he staggers back. “Oh God, that’s bad. That’s bad, everything’s bad, freaking _werewolves_!”

Stiles circles to the other side of the Jeep, opening the passenger door, and then he goes back to the house, uncoiling the garden hose. He sprays through the driver’s side, washing out the passenger side seat, floorboard, and door interior as best he can. A wet Jeep is better than a box full of werewolf nasty. The driver’s seat is slightly damp, but Stiles starts the Jeep anyway and heads towards the Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic. 

The bell on the clinic door jingles as Stiles pushes the door open. The clinic looks empty. “Dr. Deaton? Hey, it’s Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Deaton says, then appears in the front of the clinic, a glass bottle in hand. “I have the medicine for your… canine.”

“Thanks, yeah,” Stiles says, reaching for the bottle. He pauses for a second, then asks, “You wouldn’t have any of that mountain ash powder handy, would you? Just, you know, in case somebody might need something like that?”

Deaton raises an eyebrow, then reaches underneath the counter for an unmarked bag. “Give your furry friend a teaspoon of the medicine every hour for the next twelve hours. And consider the mountain ash a gift.”

Stiles nods once in thanks as he takes the bag in his free hand. He holds up the bottle in his other hand, saying, “I should get this back to my, uh, furry friend.” 

Deaton waves him towards the door, and Stiles is back at his Jeep, stowing the bag of mountain ash powder in the back seat, when he feels, more than hears, someone behind him. Stiles’s back straightens and he tenses, hand still on the bag.

“Stiles.” 

“Peter,” Stiles says, without turning around.

“You smell like…” Peter leans in close and sniffs the back of Stiles’s neck. Stiles squeezes his eyes closed and holds still until Peter pulls away. “Sick, wet dog.”

“Yeah, well, we got this new Rottweiler,” Stiles says. He forces his face into a smile as he slowly pivots to face Peter. “Got into something he shouldn’t have.”

Peter looks unimpressed, his eyes rolling up as he shakes his head. “Really, Stiles?”

Stiles grins at Peter with bravado he doesn’t feel. “Can’t keep him out of the trash can. You know how it is.”

Peter leans forward, resting his hand against the side of Stiles’s Jeep, his face right up in Stiles’s face. Stiles never gave werewolves and shaving any thought before, but now that Peter’s close enough for Stiles to smell his aftershave, his mind starts hopscotching between thoughts like _What kind of razor do werewolves use?_ and _Do they still bother to shave on a full moon?_ and _Am I about to get my throat torn out?_

“I have to say, I’m disappointed,” Peter says. His sigh is loud and drawn out, and the puff of air he breathes on Stiles’s face is very hot and smells like peppermint. “I mean, really, Stiles. Him? Do you really think he has something better to offer you than I do?” Peter inclines his head, and the way his eyes travel down Stiles’s body makes Stiles wonder if this whole situation is about to escalate, and if so, whether Peter’s thinking dinner–and–movie-type escalation or dinner–and–all–they’ll–find–after–is–Stiles’s–left–foot-type escalation. Neither option sounds great at this particular point in time.

“He just showed up in my car,” Stiles says. He slides his back along the side of the Jeep, a half-inch at a time, towards the open door. “I’m just trying to, you know, not end up with dead people. Werewolves. No dead werewolves in my house.”

Peter’s eyes narrow when Stiles says ‘house’, but he smiles. “I don’t suppose he’s of much use if he’s dead.”

“Then why would you— _you’re_ the one who was poisoning him.”

“Only a little,” Peter protests. “It took almost three days for him to ingest enough for it to become toxic. Do you realize how tedious that is, measuring wolfsbane into _such_ tiny increments and putting it into every single thing he might eat?” 

Stiles slides another half-inch down the side of the Jeep. “You’re crazy. I mean, you are completely insane.”

Peter snorts through his nose. “Please. We’ve already established that. Where have you been?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe cleaning up werewolf death puke or researching more crazy werewolf stuff or dealing with some other kind of werewolf-related drama?” Stiles replies. 

“He doesn’t even play with the toys he already has,” Peter says. His tone is conversational, but when Stiles tries to slide further along the side of the Jeep, Peter grabs the front of his shirt and twists it. “I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do with _you_.”

“Is this an alpha thing?” Stiles asks. Well, he more squeaks it while he tries to twist out of Peter’s grip. “‘Cause that doesn’t really have anything to do with me. You guys should try some family counseling or—oh my God, no claws, nobody needs the claws!” 

Peter’s hand only tightens, his claws shredding the front of Stiles’s shirt. The tip of Peter’s nose barely touches Stiles’s cheek as Peter says, his voice low and his mouth right by Stiles’s ear, “Oh, there’s _one_ thing we can agree on.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, trying to squirm away from Peter’s face. He hears the front of his shirt start to rip, and one of Peter’s claws digs into his chest. “What’s, uh—ah! sharp! sharp!—what’s that?”

“You need one of us to… look after you.” Werewolves don’t purr, but if they did, they’d probably sound a lot like Peter Hale, which is freaking disconcerting.

“Whoa, let’s just—oh my God, I’ve really gotta go now, like, _now_ -now!” Stiles says, dropping down low to duck under Peter’s arm. He yanks himself out of Peter’s grip, feeling the fabric on the front of his shirt tear and give way, Peter’s claws grazing across Stiles’s stomach. Stiles closes his eyes, gives Peter a hard shove, and Peter flies backward.

There’s a loud thud, followed by the screech of brakes, and Stiles opens his eyes to see Lydia’s Prius, with Lydia inside it, parked directly in front of him. Peter is bloody and sprawled on the blacktop next to Lydia’s car, and Stiles gapes at her, looking between Peter and Lydia a few times. 

“Well?” Lydia drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Get in, you idiot.”


	4. Doing It Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles (who does not bathe in beef stock, by the way) tries to keep Peter Hale away from him and inadvertently creates a bigger problem.

“Lydia?” Stiles blurts. “What—”

“I hit him with the car, Stiles,” Lydia says impatiently. “Get in. Let’s go.”

“You hit him with with the car!” Stiles says. “Oh my God! He is going to be _so_ pissed!”

“Stop flailing about,” Lydia commands. “Are we going to your house?”

“Are we—wait, are you coming with me? When did this happen?” Stiles asks. Peter groans and Stiles can see one of his legs twitching. “Hit him again! Hit him again!”

“Get in, Stiles! I need to know where I’m dropping you off.”

“Oh! Okay, let me get my werewolf stuff.” Stiles reaches into the back of his (still actually pretty disgusting-smelling) Jeep and gets the bag of mountain ash and the bottle of medicine. “Alright, we’re good!” He climbs into the passenger seat of Lydia’s car. “My house.”

“Right.” Lydia heads towards Stiles’s house, looking unperturbed about the entire turn of events. “Tell me, Stiles, do you bathe in beef stock?”

“Huh?” Stiles sniffs the mangled remains of his shirt. “It was chicken broth, and I didn’t bathe in it, I just heated it up on the stove.”

“Oh, Stiles.” Lydia shakes her head. “What crisis is it this time?”

“It’s a werewolf crisis,” Stiles explains. “FYI, it’s _always_ a werewolf crisis.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “What _kind_ of werewolf crisis?”

“The puking kind. The black, gross, death-puking kind,” Stiles says. He slumps down in the seat and puts his head in his hands. “Peter’s been feeding Derek wolfsbane, and apparently Derek’s super powers only work when creeping or brooding is involved. Not so much with the eating.”

For some reason, this makes Lydia laugh as she pulls to a stop in front of Stiles’s house. “Oh, Stiles,” she says sympathetically. “I’ll have Jackson bring your Jeep by later.”

Stiles opens the car door. “Yeah, tell him to watch out for the—you know what? Nevermind. Here. Just tell him in advance how much I appreciate it,” he says, handing Lydia the key to his Jeep. Jackson can just experience the firsthand enjoyment of the interior of Stiles’s Jeep.

Lydia takes the key and nods. “Bye, and you’re welcome!”

As Lydia drives away, Stiles calls out, “Thank you! I meant to... say thank you.” He sighs and shakes his head, clutching the bag of mountain ash in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Okay, first the magic powder, I guess.” 

Stiles shoves the bottle into his pocket and proceeds to walk around his house in circle, making a thin line of mountain ash powder around the perimeter, just like he did outside the club. “Focus, Stiles, focus,” he mutters to himself. He has more than enough powder this time, so there’s nothing magical to let him know that it worked. It _feels_ like it works, though, and since it’s supposed to be about intent, that probably means it worked. Probably. Hopefully. He hurries into the house, locking the door behind him.

“Stiles?” his dad’s voice calls. “That you? I didn’t hear you pull up.”

“I, uh. Got a ride. From Lydia.” Oh, crap. His dad’s home. Giant stinking pile of werewolf crap.

“Well.” His dad walks towards the front of the house. “Would you like to explain why _Derek Hale_ is curled up in your bed asleep, exactly?”

“Hmm. Uh. No, not really,” Stiles says. “So, I’ll just go—”

“ _Now_ , Stiles.” 

Stiles grins in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “He had food poisoning, Dad. He almost passed out in the grocery store parking lot. It was gross. There was puke. I couldn’t just leave him.”

“Uh-huh.” His dad sounds skeptical. “You’re a lot of things, Stiles, but compassion isn’t at the top of a list of traits, if I were making the list.”

“Hey! I’m compassionate! I’m a compassionate guy!”

“Right. Well, I just stopped to get a change of clothes. I’d like the Hale boy to be gone when I get home.”

“I think he’s technically a man, Dad,” Stiles says. “I mean, he’s got to be, what, twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. Gone, Stiles. He should be over his food poisoning by then.” He pauses. “And put a bandage on that.”

Stiles looks down at his torn, somewhat bloody shirt. “Yeah, I uh. I got it caught in a—”

“Don’t want to know,” his dad interrupts quickly. “Just make sure you don’t get it infected or anything. Oh, and eat some dinner.”

“Will do,” Stiles answers, putting his hand up to his forehead in mock salute. “Be careful at work, okay?”

“Worrying’s supposed to be my job.” His dad shakes his head. “I will be.” With that, he heads back out the door, the bolt locking a moment later.

Stiles drops straight down on his ass on the ground in a loud thump, then tips backwards and sprawls on the floor. “My life is ridiculous. Everything about my life is ridiculous.”

He wallows on the floor for a few minutes before he remembers the reason he left the house to begin with, at which point he stands up and gets a teaspoon from the kitchen and then walks back to his bedroom. Derek is, in fact, still curled in a ball in the middle of Stiles’s bed, only at some point between when Stiles left and when he got back, Derek lost the t-shirt, and he looks damp again. He looks like he’s asleep, but he twitches just as Stiles stops inside the room.

“Hey, Derek? You look like you’re still alive. That’s, uh. That’s good, that you’re still alive,” Stiles says. 

Derek sits up almost suspiciously quickly, and his eyes narrow as he sniffs. “What did you do to yourself? Why do you smell like Peter?”

“Why do people keep smelling me? How is this an acceptable form of greeting?” Stiles asks. “Seriously, can’t you at least _pretend_ to be a normal person for, oh, five minutes?”

“Why. Do you smell. Like Peter?” Derek repeats, glaring at Stiles’s ripped shirt. “Where did you go?”

“I went to the vet clinic. I got medicine from Dr. Deaton,” Stiles says. “I thought you wanted my help. You let yourself into my Jeep, I’m not the one who put you there.”

“I don’t want you around Peter,” Derek says, like he’s fixated on saying Peter’s name in every other sentence. “You should stay away from him.”

“First of all,” Stiles begins. “Not sure when you think it started to matter who you wanted me around. Second of all, I didn’t go looking for him, he found _me_. And third of all... yeah, okay, I don’t actually have a third thing.”

“He shouldn’t be doing that,” Derek says firmly. 

“And here I was thinking it was totally cool that he _shredded my shirt with his werewolf claws_ ,” Stiles snaps. “Thank you so much for stating the obvious, Derek. That just really makes it all so much clearer.” He pulls the bottle of medicine out of his pocket and chucks it at Derek, along with the teaspoon. “One teaspoon every hour for twelve hours. I’ve got to go wash this off.”

Derek glares at him. “Don’t leave the house again, until I’ve finished it.”

“What? No, you can’t stay here for twelve more hours,” Stiles says. “My dad says you have to leave. And... you don’t get to tell me what to do, dude. _I_ saved _your_ ass. I tell me what to do.” 

Stiles turns and storms out of his bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom. He should have gotten another shirt, because there’s definitely no saving this one. He pulls it off and throws it in the trash, then looks at himself in the mirror. He has one deep gouge right over his sternum, and several long furrows across his stomach. 

“Great,” Stiles mutters to himself. “I was just thinking how much I’d enjoy some nice sepsis.” He washes the scratches off with a wet rag, then opens the medicine cabinet for cotton balls and peroxide. When he closes the medicine cabinet, he sees Derek reflected in the mirror, standing right behind him. “Jesus, Derek!”

“Why did he do this to you?”

“He’s _your_ psychotic uncle. You tell me.”

“I wasn’t there.” Derek leans in and sniffs at Stiles again. “Lydia?”

“You know, I’m a little bit busy here, alright?” Stiles looks away from Derek’s reflection and starts pouring peroxide onto a cotton ball and dabbing it at the gouge on his chest. 

“Why do you do this?” Derek glares at Stiles’s reflection. “That medicine is disgusting.”

“Do what?” Stiles asks, putting one hand on his stomach next to the deepest scratch and peering down at it. That is going to _hurt_ to clean. “And too bad. One teaspoon every hour, for twelve hours. Enjoy.”

Derek growls and picks up the cotton balls in one motion. He pushes Stiles’s hand out of the way and starts cleaning off the furrows. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Ow, ow, _ow_!” Stiles swats at Derek’s hand. “No, my way was better. Your way hurts. Stoppit stoppit ow!”

“It has to hurt to make sure you don’t get infected,” Derek says, scowling. “Don’t be a wimp. I know you can handle it.”

“Oh, I’m the wimp, mister ‘my medicine is yucky’?” Stiles replies. “Ow, seriously, there is no way that scratch is that deep, what are you _doing_ to me?”

“Cleaning it,” Derek says shortly. “What did Peter say to you?” He pours more peroxide on fresh cotton balls and starts on the next furrow. “Tell me.”

Stiles hisses when Derek applies pressure on the scratch. “He’s a lunatic, so, you know, crazy person shit.”

“What _kind_ of ‘crazy person shit’?” Derek says, almost mockingly. “Stop. It’s good it hasn’t been long since he did this.”

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s great. Fresh wounds are fantastic,” Stiles grumbles. “Something about you and your toys, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Oh, and how about the two of you don’t have any more conversations about me, ‘cause apparently it just ramps up the crazy.”

“I would be happy not to have to talk to him,” Derek almost growls. “If they had closed, I would have to break the scabs open.” He stands up and glares at Stiles again. “There. You have to get deep in the wound.”

Stiles shudders at the thought of having any scabs broken open, let alone by Derek. “So what’d you do to piss him off enough to poison you, anyway? Other than, uh, slashing his throat that one time. I guess that could probably do it, but...”

“He thought it was funny,” Derek grunts.

“Oh, so that’s where you get it from, huh?”

Derek glares and shoves a handful of cotton balls at Stiles. “Do you want me to do the big one after all?”

“You know, I’m helping you,” Stiles says. “If you’re going to act like a jerk about it, you can just take your medicine and go home. Leave my teaspoon, though.”

Derek snarls at him and stalks out of the bathroom. A moment later, there’s the sound of him cursing. “Stiles?” Derek calls. “What did you do now?”

“I thought you were leaving!” Stiles shouts back. “What’s my fault now? You can’t find the right place to leave the spoon?”

“I can’t. Leave.” Derek sounds pissed off. “What did you do? Mountain ash?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says. He looks at the big scratch on his stomach and shakes his head. He’ll clean that one out in a minute. He walks into his bedroom where Derek is pacing back and forth, glowering. “Dr. Deaton gave me some so I could—oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Derek snaps. He walks over to the bed and sits on it. “I guess you’re stuck with me, Stiles.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles sighs. “That’s just freaking _perfect_. You know what, I liked you better when you were puking!”

“You’re getting blood all over your carpet,” Derek says calmly. “You might want to take care of that, too.”

“Oh, eat me,” Stiles says, flipping Derek off. Derek looks down and mutters something indistinguishable, flopping back on the bed like he belongs there. “And you can sleep on the floor!” Stiles adds.

Derek raises one eyebrow. “I’m sick and you’re injured. I’m sure there’s room for both of us.” With that, he rolls over, closing his eyes.

“Perfect. Freaking perfect. Freaking _werewolves_.”


	5. Tossing Pizza at Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is a vegetarian.

“You’re sure that’s the only time it’s mentioned in the whole thing?” Stiles asks Derek. He thumbs through the stack of photocopied papers from Derek again, refers to something on his computer screen, then reshuffles the papers. 

Derek grunts and shifts on the bed. “Already?”

“Hunting clans. Only mentioned once, right?”

“Couldn’t you wait until I had to wake up?”

“Oh. Were you asleep again?” Stiles asks. “Sorry about that.”

“Sure you are,” Derek says under his breath, but loud enough for Stiles to hear. “Once. Only once.”

“What? We were just talking a second ago.” Stiles looks at the clock on his computer. “Uh, forty-seven minutes ago. Sorry. But is there anything else in there that’s similar? Any other use of the word ‘clans’ at all in the whole book?”

“Nope. Thought maybe he was a Mel Gibson fan at first.”

“ _How_ old are you, exactly? Like, what decade are you even from?” Stiles mutters, shaking his head. “It’s just, he talks about losing five men—and I think he means dead-losing, not misplacing them or something—and somebody else getting his arm cut off, but then boom. That’s it. Doesn’t say another word about it.”

“ _Braveheart_ is a classic,” Derek insists, sounding almost indignant. He shrugs. “Maybe there’s pages missing. But that’s the only time he uses the word ‘clans’.”

Stiles rubs his face with both his hands and then runs both of them over the top of his head. “I’m going cross-eyed looking at this crap. Gerard was a bigger bastard then we thought. Who writes that small?”

“What time is it?”

“Uh.” Stiles squints at the computer’s clock again. “Late. It’s really late. You should go ahead and take your last dose of that medicine.”

Derek sits up and makes a face, pouring out the last dose of the medicine. “You should sleep now.”

“Yeah, I’ll sleep when I’m—no, okay, actually I’m sort of tired,” Stiles admits. “Tell me _not_ to sleep, so I can do the opposite of whatever you’re telling me to do.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says flatly. “And clearly in need of sleep.”

“Alright, fine, fine,” Stiles says, waving one hand at Derek to let him know his continued input isn’t needed. “Sleep. I’m sleeping. Just don’t, I don’t know. Wolf out on me in the middle of the night, or puke on my bed or something like that.”

Stiles climbs onto the bed next to Derek, who is stretched out on top of the blankets. Stiles gets underneath the covers and wraps them around his body, rolling as far to the edge of the bed as he can, his back to Derek. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the fact that over half his bed is being taken up by Derek freaking Hale.

Even without giant scratches on his stomach or someone else in his bed, Stiles isn’t exactly a relaxed sleeper. The addition of Derek and pain don’t improve the quality of his sleep, and Stiles wakes himself up a few times almost falling off the bed or nearly flailing or rolling into Derek. The sky outside Stiles’s window is starting to get that greyish pre-dawn color before Stiles manages to drop into a decently deep sleep.

Stiles dreams that someone’s nuzzling his stomach, and he stretches in his sleep, reaching down to run his palm against the soft hair on the back of that someone’s head. A warm tongue laps at the skin on his stomach a few times, then runs along the deepest of Stiles’ scratches. Stiles lets out a quiet, happy noise and pets the back of the head, though there’s suddenly a little voice in his head telling him something isn’t quite right. He ignores it in favor of paying attention to the tongue still running across his stomach.

The tongue moves to the next furrow on Stiles’s stomach, and some rational part of Stiles’s brain mentions, politely, that in a dream he probably wouldn’t have a bunch of werewolf claw-scratches across his stomach, and maybe Stiles should wake up a little and figure out what’s actually going on. If scratches on his stomach mean he isn’t really asleep, then being licked can’t be part of a dream. If he isn’t dreaming, then there’s really only one explanation for what’s happening. 

“Uh. Derek?” Stiles squeaks. “What’s, uh. Going on here?”

The licking stops momentarily, and Derek sounds half-asleep when he responds. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah. Peter, remember?” Stiles’s hand is still on the back of Derek’s head, and he’s torn between snatching it away quickly and just... leaving it there.

Derek lets out a soft growl and he shifts away from Stiles’s stomach. “Stiles?”

“Yeah. Uh, hey,” Stiles says. He slowly removes his hand from Derek’s head and waves at Derek with it, like that had been the whole purpose of that hand to being with. “You were, uh. Kinda licking me.”

“Hurt pup,” Derek says, like that’s an explanation. “Pack.”

Stiles pulls back and sits up. “Wait, you thought I was a... _pup_? Like a baby werewolf?” He doesn’t mean it to come out sounded like it does, a mix of indignant and wounded. 

Derek opens his eyes and studies Stiles for a moment. “No. A pup would be much smaller. If you were a pup, you wouldn’t have stopped me either.”

“But you just said—no, you know what? I’m too tired for this. I’m going back to sleep and _no licking_ ,” Stiles says, rolling onto his side facing away from Derek. “Don’t make me get the squirt bottle.”

Derek doesn’t say anything for a long time, so long that he could have fallen asleep, but then he mutters, “Bet they feel better now.”

“Shut up. They don’t.” 

They totally do.

The next time Stiles wakes up, sunlight is pouring in his bedroom window, the room is way too hot, and someone’s banging on something. 

“Stiles!” His dad’s voice accompanies the next round of banging.

“Dad?” Stiles sits up in the bed and looks over at Derek, who is stretching, eyes still close, like he’s got no particular place to be. “Oh, crap, that’s my dad. Derek!” Stiles hisses. “Get under my bed.”

Derek opens his eyes and looks at Stiles like Stiles is the crazy one. “Why?” he asks quietly. “It’s dirty under there.”

“How dirty do you think it’s going to be when my dad _kills_ me?” Stiles whispers. “He said you had to be gone before he got home. In case you haven’t noticed yourself still being here, you’re not gone!”

There’s another loud banging on the door, and Derek frowns. “What’d I do?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Derek,” Stiles says. “Why don’t you climb underneath my bed and think about it for a while?”

Derek narrows his eyes and climbs off the side of the bed, muttering to himself. “...dressed and sick.”

“Stiles! Wake up.”

“Coming dad!” Stiles says, then whispers, “And stay under there.” Stiles gets up and opens his bedroom door, leaning on the door frame casually. “Oh, hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“You’ve slept pretty late, even for the summer. Everything okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah. I just, uh. Had some weird dreams, hard time staying asleep, you know?” 

His dad’s face softens, and he reaches out to pat Stiles on the shoulder, resting his hand there afterwards. “Take care of yourself, Stiles. You get Derek Hale back home last night?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure he went home,” Stiles says. “But like you said, right? You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Stiles’s dad chuckles. “Right. I’m heading to work now. Why don’t you invite your friends over later, watch some movies? There’s some cash in the kitchen for pizza.”

“Sure, Dad, thanks,” Stiles says. “Be safe, alright?”

“You too.” He points a finger jokingly at Stiles. “No more wayward food poisoning victims, at least for a day or two.”

“I promise.”

His dad smiles and pats him on the shoulder one more time, then turns to leave, the door closing behind him a few moments later. Stiles walks over to the side of his bed, where Derek’s not even all the way underneath, and kicks Derek.

“I lied to my dad for you,” Stiles says. “The least you could do is hide better.”

“I _tried_ to leave last night,” Derek points out. “But you encircled me here. The least you could do is feed me some of that pizza.”

“I hope you like mushrooms. And black olives. Oh, and green peppers,” Stiles says. “In fact, why don’t I just get the whole veggie pizza?”

“Why don’t you get a supreme?” Derek counters.

“Why don’t you pay for your own pizza, then?”

Derek lifts an eyebrow and looks steadily at Stiles, not blinking. Stiles raises both of his eyebrows and makes a face. “You aren’t a vegetarian.”

“Neither are you. That’s what’s going to make that veggie pizza taste sooooo good,” Stiles says.

“Does no one ever call you out as an asshole?” Derek says, almost conversationally. “Or a jackass. Some descriptor like that.”

“I’m am beloved by my people,” Stiles answers. He goes to the phone and orders a supreme pizza—quietly. While they wait for the pizza, Stiles goes back to his computer and keeps looking for information about these ‘hunting clans’ that Gerards journal mentions, ignoring Derek. Derek climbs off the bed and wanders around Stiles’s room, spending more time looking at the bookcase and the stuff on Stiles’s shelves than seems possible. 

“Don’t steal anything,” Stiles says. “And I think I hear the pizza guy. Go pay him.”

Derek frowns at Stiles, but leaves the room and returns with the pizza—already missing one slice. “The delivery boy seemed surprised to see me.”

Stiles glances up at Derek. “You could put on a shirt, you know. It doesn’t take away your superpowers to wear a shirt.”

“Are you offended?” Derek asks, sounding almost amused.

“I’m just saying maybe the delivery guy was.”

Derek shrugs and sets the pizza on Stiles’s desk. “I didn’t think people paid for pizza so the delivery guy could be offended or not.”

Stiles opens the box and grabs a slice of pizza one-handed, still scrolling down the site he was reading. He eats the slice without really looking at it, some of the toppings dropping off and bouncing off his keyboard, and then he reads something that makes him freeze in the middle of chewing a mouthful.

“Hey Derek?” Stiles asks through his bite of pizza.

“Yes?” Derek replies after swallowing. 

“I think I found something.”

Derek looks at Stiles steadily. “Well? What did you find?”

“So, uh. Have you ever considered relocating?”

“You can summarize for me, I don’t need to come and read over your shoulder.”

“No, I mean you. Your pack. Possibly everyone we know.” Stiles scrolls down a little more. “You know, I hear Canada’s nice. Hawaii is a possibility.”

“Stiles...”

“They’re werewolves,” Stiles says. “But not regular ones. Remember that Alpha pack?”

“Stiles.” Derek looks at Stiles like he’s possibly demented. “Explain.”

“Imagine a pack of Alphas on steroids. Then, uh. Double it.”

“What—More details,” Derek demands, his face twisted up in a frown. “We can’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly.

“There’s not really any more details,” Stiles says, scrolling more. “Oh, but hey, there’s a picture. Derek? Hey, Derek, what—”

“We have a more immediate problem,” Derek says suddenly. 

“What? What problem? Why do we have a new problem? I don’t want a new problem!” Stiles points at the screen. “I just found a problem.”

“Shhh,” Derek says quietly. “Peter’s here.”

“Toss him a slice of pizza and maybe he’ll go away,” Stiles suggests. Derek looks like he’s considering it, his hand even twitching towards the pizza before he stops himself and shakes his head, looking impatiently at Stiles. 

“What? He can’t get in,” Stiles says. “Well, I mean, I _think_ he can’t get in. Actually, I’m not sure how long that mountain ash stuff lasts.”

“Peter is like a stray. If we feed him once, he’ll keep coming back.”

“What do you think he’ll do if we turn the hose on him?”

Derek starts to laugh, genuine laughter, like the image in his mind is just too good. “I wonder if we could get a skunk to spray him.”

Stiles starts laughing too, though between Peter’s presence on his property and the hunting clan stuff on his screen, he probably shouldn’t be laughing. “I’ll go talk to him, I guess?”

“No.” Derek immediately stops laughing. “No, you won’t do that.”

“I’ll stay inside the circle,” Stiles says, standing up. He grabs another slice of pizza, then shrugs and picks up an additional slice. “He’s got a lot of info about this kind of stuff. I’m gonna ask him a few questions, see if he knows about this hunting clan thing.”

“Email him,” Derek says, his free hand darting out to grab Stiles’s shoulder. “Email your questions. Don’t go out there.”

“I can’t hide in my house forever. I don’t even know what he wants. There’s got to be some kind of reason he keeps showing up, right?” Stiles asks, trying to shrug Derek’s hand off. “I’ll go ask him. From inside the circle.”

Derek scowls, glaring at the window like it’s standing in for Peter. “I know what he wants.”


	6. Pissing Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott lost his invitation to the alpha convention. Stiles's mouth is large enough to accomodate his foot.

“Good for you, buddy,” Stiles says. He pats Derek’s chest and then gives him a shove away. “I don’t, so I’m going to go find out.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy finding out,” Derek says, looking strangely crestfallen. 

“I don’t enjoy your creepy uncle lurking outside my house, so looks like I’m not having any enjoyment either way. May as well satisfy my curiosity.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t get a vote,” Stiles says. He heads towards the front door, finishing his slice of pizza and licking his fingers, then wiping his greasy hand on his shirt. 

Derek grabs his shoulder, spinning him around and then backing them up a few paces until Stiles’s back hits the front door. “I _really_ think you should avoid Peter,” Derek insists, a faint red gleam to his eyes.

“I really think you should back off, Mister Alpha Badass,” Stiles says, giving Derek another push off of him. 

Derek looks pained before he finally speaks. “Please.”

Stiles sighs and slumps against the door. “Fine. You can talk to him _first_ , but I reserve the right to talk to him after if I’m not happy with what I hear.”

Derek nods sharply. “That’s...fair.” He straightens and waits for Stiles to move away from the door, barely opening. “Listen from in here.”

“Then talk loudly,” Stiles says. 

The look that passes briefly over Derek’s face might actually be a grin, but then it disappears as he steps onto the porch. “Peter,” he says, and it is more loudly than he usually speaks.

“Derek,” Peter’s voice answers. “Are we shouting for Stiles’s benefit?”

“Yes,” Derek says flatly. “We are. Is that a problem?”

“I do think we’re taking this Big Bad Wolf metaphor a little far, don’t you?” Peter asks. “Little pig, little pig, let me come in,” he adds, slightly louder.

“You’re hilarious, Peter. What do you want?” Derek manages to sound almost bored. Stiles moves to the window directly behind Derek and opens it to watch. “Stiles!” Derek hisses over his shoulder, frowning. 

“What? I’m still inside!”

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter calls out. “Do come out and join us.”

Derek shakes his head at Stiles. “No,” he whispers, even though Peter can probably still hear him. “What do you want, Peter?” he repeats, looking back at Peter.

“You know what I want, and yet you persist in getting in my way,” Peter answers. “Why is that, Derek? Explain to the rest of the class.”

“I don’t want you to have what you want,” Derek bites out. “Why don’t you explain it to Stiles?”

“All of it, really?” Peter asks. When Derek’s only answer is a continued glare, Peter shrugs. “Have it your way. What I want, Stiles,” Peter says, turning to speak towards the open window, “is a pack. I’m sure that doesn’t come as any surprise to you.”

“Then get it the old-fashioned way and bully socially awkward teenagers into it,” Stiles says, then pauses. “Oh.”

Derek turns sideways and raises his eyebrows at Stiles. “Really, Stiles?”

“Which, uh, I guess is kind of exactly what you’re doing right now,” Stiles concedes. “But look, why me? I’ve been around this werewolf stuff long enough to know all the downsides. Wouldn’t it make more sense to try this with somebody who doesn’t know any better yet?”

“Hence the not asking,” Peter says, with a small, creepy smile. 

“There is at _least_ one too many alphas in Beacon Hills,” Derek says, holding his body stiff. 

“Yeah, well you should have thought about that _before_ we fought the alpha pack, huh?” Stiles hisses. 

“There wasn’t really any alternative!”

“I’m just saying that we could have had a contingency plan!”

“As interesting as this discussion is,” Peter interrupts, “can we get back to the part of the conversation where I give Stiles the bite and he becomes part of my pack?”

“He is _not_ going to be part of your pack,” Derek says, snarling.

“Oh, I think he will. I think before the summer is over, he’ll be happy to join my pack,” Peter says. 

“He already has a pack. Two packs,” Derek says, sounding almost confused.

“What are you talking about?” Stiles whispers. “I don’t have any packs. Don’t tell him that, you’ll just encourage him.”

Derek turns around and looks injured. “You do!” He pauses. “The fact that you aren’t a werewolf is irrelevant.”

“Yeeeah, we can discuss this a little later,” Stiles says, looking at Derek askance through the window screen. “Tell him I said, uh. I’ll think about it!”

“No.” Derek rolls his eyes and looks back at Peter. “Leave now.”

“While we’re all having this nice moment today, why don’t you share what _you_ want, Derek?” Peter says. He makes eye contact with Stiles through the window screen and slowly smiles. 

“That doesn’t concern you.” Derek glares at Peter again, then turns and walks back into the house, closing the door behind him. “Move,” he says to Stiles.

“He’s still out in my yard,” Stiles protests, as Derek grabs him by the back of the shirt and hauls him away from the window. The neckband of Stiles’s shirt cuts into his neck and he manages a strangled “Derek!” before Derek shoves him in the direction of the hallway. Stiles pauses in the hall and rubs his throat. “Dude, that is _not_ okay!”

“He’ll leave soon enough,” Derek says, not even looking at Stiles. “Did you _want_ to go visit with him?”

“There’s a middle ground between visiting and you _strangling_ me!”

“You weren’t being strangled.”

“Let’s see... shirt, cutting into my neck... yeah, that’s how I’d define strangulation,” Stiles says. He rubs his neck a few more times to make a point and then turns and stomps off down the hall, not looking to see if Derek is following him or not. He sits back down at his computer and scrolls slightly up the page. “Don’t lurk. It’s creepy.”

“I’m observing,” Derek says flatly. “Why did you say you don’t have any packs?”

“Why do you think it’s any of your business?”

Derek looks incredulous, or as incredulous as he can. “And that is why I’m asking,” he mutters.

“You know,” Stiles says, still not looking over his shoulder at Derek. “I’m starting to feel like I’m in the middle of a werewolf pissing contest.”

“There is no—no. Peter is completely deluded. Mostly.”

“Okay, so is he completely or mostly?” Stiles turns in his chair to look at Derek. “Do you want to tell me what’s really going on here, or should I just keep on reading about this hunting clans thing and quietly freaking out?”

“He’s right about one thing. But he didn’t mention it.” Derek frowns. “I told him before that you wouldn’t join his pack. Then you said you didn’t—I don’t understand why you said that.”

“I don’t know, Derek. ‘Cause maybe I see enough pack drama already without jumping into it feet first,” Stiles sighs. 

“But you _are_ pack.” Derek sounds mystified.

“I’m just a normal kid... with abnormal friends and questionable hobbies.” Stiles turns back towards the computer screen. “Did you want to hear what I found or not? I can just print it off for you and highlight the important parts.”

“Fine, maybe you don’t think of yourself as part of Scott’s pack and he doesn’t count you as part of his.” Derek pauses. “But you’re part of mine.”

“Is that so?” Stiles makes a little tsking sound and shakes his head. “So’d you win the pissing contest?”

“What? No. I mean, there was no pissing contest. Is. I just.” Derek is quiet for a long moment. “I’ve considered you part of my pack for a long time.”

Stiles responds with a noncommittal hum and continues reading for a few seconds before it hits him. “Wait. I’m like your pet. Oh my god, I’m your _pet_! I’m your pet human!”

Derek growls. “For someone so smart, you’re very stupid,” he says, and then his hand is on Stiles’s shoulder, spinning him around. Stiles tries to jerk away, and when he can’t, he settles for batting ineffectually at Derek’s hand. Derek ignores Stiles’s hand, leaning forward, and then Derek is kissing him. 

Stiles is too stunned to react at first, but then the reality of what’s happening finally filters through to his brain, and he pulls back, sputtering. “What... what are you _doing_?”

Derek straightens and looks away, staring at Stiles’s window. “I’d hope you recognize what that is,” he says flatly.

“What, is this how you convince people to join your pack?” Stiles asks. He grabs the edge of his chair to stop the almost compulsive movement of his hand towards his mouth, since he’s not sure if he’s going to wipe it off or just sort of touch his lips where Derek’s lips touched them. “Is this what you do with everybody? I mean, just because it worked with Eric—” 

Stiles cuts himself off, his eyes widening as Derek’s face and shoulders tense. “Derek,” Stiles says. “Oh, shit, Derek, I’m sorry. I’m so freaking sorry. That was a shitty thing to say, I can’t believe I said that.” He’s babbling, and Derek doesn’t answer him. Instead, Derek sits down on Stiles’s bed. “Derek, hey. I’m sorry, alright?”

Derek sounds sort of hollow when he finally speaks. “I can go into the kitchen or something until the mountain ash loses its effectiveness,” he says, his voice monotone.

“I can go out and break the circle,” Stiles says. “If you want to go. You don’t have to go.”

“I assumed you’d want me to leave.”

“I’m an asshole,” Stiles blurts. Derek doesn’t argue, his head moving in what might be a nod. “Yeah, so... so, I’m an asshole, and you shouldn’t listen to any of the bullshit that comes out of my mouth, okay? So you can just stay and we won’t worry about the mountain ash and, uh. I’ll order another pizza later.”

Derek nods again, still staring, only this time he’s not looking at the window, just down at his hands. “Okay.”

“My dad’s got some beer in the fridge. You can drink it if you want to,” Stiles offers, then mentally kicks himself. Beer, sure. That makes up for the Erica thing.

“I’m fine.” Derek shakes his head. “No beer necessary.”

“Do you want to, I don’t know. Throw me into a wall or something? Might make you feel better, a little violence, right?”

Derek laughs harshly, with no humor in it. “Right. That’ll fix everything this time.”

Stiles sighs. “Look, Derek, I—” He’s interrupted by the sound of ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ blaring out of his phone to indicate Scott no–timing–like–bad–timing McCall is calling him. “I should probably get that.”

Derek nods, waving one hand towards the phone, but his expression shifts to something close to curiosity.

“Scott,” Stiles hisses into his phone. “ _Now_ you call me back? I’ve been trying to get you for the last twenty-four hours!”

“I can’t get in!” Scott says in return. “What’d you do?”

“You could’ve gotten in yesterday. I left a message!”

“I was Skyping with Allison in Washington,” Scott says in that stupid-ass dreamy voice he always uses when he talks about Allison. “We had a date.”

“I had a _werewolf problem_ ,” Stiles snaps. “You’re supposed to be available for those.”

“Is everything okay now?” Scott asks, sounding like he hopes the answer is yes. “Oh, and hey, is Derek there? I smell Derek. And.” He pauses. “Was Peter here too?”

“Yeah, everywolf was here, Scott, because it’s a freaking alpha convention. You didn’t get your invitation in time for the banquet though, sorry.”

“Shit, what’d you guys eat?” Scott asks mournfully.

“A whole gazelle, dude, it was pretty gross,” Stiles says.

“Oh. Hey, wait, if it was an alpha convention, why was it at your house?”

“Because that’s where they were holding the pissing contest,” Stiles explains, with a sneaky look over at Derek. “Why are you here, anyway? Were you going to piss on me, too? Try to make me join your pack?”

“It’s not a pissing contest!” Derek hisses. 

“Was that Derek? What are you talking about, are they trying to bite you?” Scott sounds confused. “Tell Derek hi. Wait, if I can’t get in, does that mean you’re in there just with him?”

“No, the catering staff is stuck in here, too,” Stiles says. “Yes, it’s just me and him, idiot. I had to put mountain ash around the house because Peter’s—you know, I still don’t really know what Peter’s deal is, other than apparently he wants to bite me, so if you can figure that out, let me know.”

“Oh, well, that’s good then, that Derek’s there,” Scott says, brightening. “You’ll let me know when I can come over?”

“Yeah, we’ll figure it out. Just keep an eye out, okay? There’s something going down, maybe. When I know more, I’ll let you know.”

“OK. I’ll, uh. Call you tomorrow or something. You could come over to mine and we could play some more video games or whatever.” He pauses. “And you can bring my controller! That’s why I was here, actually.”

“Yeah, you left it in the kitchen,” Stiles says. “I’ll bring it tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring Derek, too, if we can get him out of the mountain ash circle.”

“Yeah, cool! Bye, Stiles.” Scott ends the call without waiting for a response. 

Stiles shakes his head and lowers his phone. “Sorry about that, Scott was—” This time, Stiles is cut off when his phone starts to blare ‘Werewolves of London’. Stiles looks down at the phone, and then up at Derek, who has his phone in his hand, face blank. “Uh. I can explain that,” Stiles says, quickly thumbing off the phone. 

Derek takes a deep breath. “I think we both have some things to explain.”


	7. Beacon Valley High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate you in your cake-stealing face.

Stiles deliberately turns off the ringer on his phone and sets the phone down on his desk. Derek doesn’t say anything else, and Stiles isn’t sure where to start explaining that whole ‘Werewolves of London’ thing, so the awkward silence stretches out like a big, wet awkward blanket.

“Is Isaac’s ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’” Derek asks finally. 

“What?” Stiles sort of splutters. “No! That’s just—no!”

“It’s a valid question,” Derek says mildly. “Maybe that’s Jackson’s.”

“Nah, his is the ‘Asshole Song’,” Stiles says. “Kind of fit perfectly.”

Derek cracks a smile briefly, but doesn’t say anything else. Stiles jumps on the opportunity for normal conversation, and adds, “Isaac’s is ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window’. Now I know you wanna ask what Lydia’s is.”

“Sure,” Derek says after a few moments. “Tell me.”

“It might be a quote from _Legally Blonde_ , but since my phone’s off now, you’ll never know.”

“At least not today,” Derek agrees, and he straightens for the first time since he sat down, stretching his arms over his head. If it were anybody but Derek, Stiles would be sure the whole stretching thing was just an excuse to show off his abs, and even with Derek, it’s a possibility. 

“So, uh. What did you have to explain?” Stiles asks.

Derek drops his arms and looks to the side. “You should probably tell me more about the hunting clans thing first.”

“Uh huh. Yeah, I guess, probably,” Stiles says. He doesn’t feel disappointed or anything, since there’s not, you know, a _huge_ elephant-wolf in the room or anything. “So, you never told me that werewolves had their own furry version of Neo-Nazis, dude. That might have been a good place to start.”

“Huh?” Derek looks up. “What are you talking about?”

“The hunting clans? They’re like werewolf supremacists or something. Look.” Stiles gestures at the website. “This site? Pretty sure it was set up by other werewolves to track these guys. See the map there?”

“Uh-huh.” Derek leans forward slightly. “That’s... where they’ve been?”

“The red dots are where they’ve been. The red Xs are where they’ve, uh...”

“Killed other _wolves_?” Derek asks, like things are finally slotting into place. “That’s what you meant by neo-Nazi.”

“Not all of them, but yeah. The Xs are where they’ve wiped out packs. They’ve gone through the southeast, across Texas, cut up through Santa Fe in New Mexico. I didn’t realize there were that many packs out there, and seriously, the desert is like werewolf central.”

“It’s isolated,” Derek explains. “Some packs prefer to hide by being some of the only citizens. Others prefer to be a bit closer to humans.”

“Yeah, well, humans seem to be the issue. The details are kind of sketchy, but it looks like they’re looking for a few good wolves... like _you_. Not so much like Scott, Isaac, Jackson, or Boyd,” Stiles says. 

“Possibly more like Peter, then.” Derek stands up and paces slightly. “If you’re correct, they probably would look at the fact that I’ve turned—” He cuts himself off. “Peter’s only bitten Scott.”

“Well, he bit Lydia, too. Just didn’t take,” Stiles points out. “And hey, he keeps trying to bite me, so that’s probably some points off for him, ‘cause, well.” He gestures at himself. “Probably not the Master Wolf type.”

“That sounds like a bad television show. Please refrain from using that phrase in the future.”

“So you know how to catch a Master Wolf?” Stiles asks, blinking his eyes innocently at Derek.

“No. _No_.”

“First you need a master trap, and then you need some master ba—”

“Stop.” Derek scowls and heads towards the door. “I’ll take one of those beers now.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Stiles grumbles. “They’re in the fridge. Help yourself. Don’t eat the cake, though, that’s mine.”

Derek snorts as he walks down the wall, and immediately following the sound of the refrigerator opening and the sound of a beer being retrieved is the sound of the cake being removed from the refrigerator as well. 

“My cake! No eat!” Stiles shouts. “I made that cake!”

“Then you can make another one,” Derek responds. “And I don’t have to worry about someone lacing it with wolfsbane, either.”

“Maybe if I’d had some warning,” Stiles mumbles to himself. He clicks on the map and hits print, then navigates back to the main page. “Did you know there’s a whole werewolf network?” he calls over his shoulder. “Why aren’t you guys on that?”

“This is excellent cake! Can you make a cake for the next birthday? I think it’s Isaac’s. Maybe in the shape of a bone.” Derek pauses, the scrape of a fork against a plate echoing. “And that network is based on protocols that America Online used.”

“Yeah, but it might have been useful to know that werewolves had hunters, too, dude.”

“I’ve been out of touch with the larger community,” Derek says shortly, loudly getting another bite of cake.

“Word of advice for the future? When you’re a supernatural creature routinely hunted by crazy people with bows and swords and magical bullets? Stay in touch.”

“Oh, thanks.” Derek nods. “I wouldn’t have thought of that, Stiles.” Derek’s plate and fork clatter, followed by the thud of a second piece of cake on the plate. “Mmm, this cake is sooo good. Too bad this is the last slice.”

“I hate you in your face. In your cake-eating werewolf cake-stealing face.”

“Would you like some salt?” Derek asks through a mouthful of cake.

“Didn’t think that worked on werewolves,” Stiles says. “Okay, so what do we do about this?” 

“Only if they’re wounded,” Derek mutters under his breath. “Convince the hunting clans that they were actually looking for Beacon Valley? Or some other Hills?”

“These are not the wolves you’re looking for?” Stiles offers. “Hey, we could just phone up Allison’s dad. ‘Hey, Mister Argent, have we got a deal for you!’ and see if they’ll just take care of it. Though...”

Derek sighs and sets down the empty plate. “Unfortunately, all we can really do is prepare, and wait.”

“Wait for what?” Stiles asks. “These guys don’t mess around. You know why not all of those red dots are Xs?”

“Why, Stiles?” Derek says almost mockingly.

“Because those are the packs where some of the members _joined_ the hunting clan, Derek!” Stiles says. “And what do you think Peter’s going to do, huh? Say no thanks, I’m too busy trying to bite teenagers, just go ahead and kill me?”

“And what do you think we _can_ do?” Derek shoots back. “We have three alphas, a total of six werewolves plus two of the smartest humans I’ve ever met, and oh, a couple of hunters. They’re going to look at us and _laugh_.”

“We’re not getting my dad involved in this, though,” Stiles says. “We keep the sheriff’s department out of this. These werewolves don’t have any problem killing people.” 

“I didn’t say anything about your dad.” Derek narrows his eyes. “When I was five, my favorite toy was a stuffed wolf and I called him Mr. Wolfie. Would you like to post that somewhere prominent online?”

“Huh? You lost me there, buddy.”

“I just thought I’d save you the trouble of finding the weapons.” Derek picks his plate back up and rinses it off in the sink. “I think I’ll go check the effectiveness of that mountain ash.”

“Wait. Derek!” Stiles says. “You don’t have to go. We should read more about this. You should stay and we can look at—”

“A list of everything Derek’s screwed up? I’ll pass.” 

“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything about that,” Stiles insists. “Just, these guys are badasses, and I don’t want any of the non-wolves to get hurt because they didn’t know what they were up against, alright? It’s not like the rest of us. We _know_ what’s going on and we can, I don’t know. Get ready.”

“I don’t want _anyone_ to get hurt,” Derek says, back turned to Stiles. “I’m not convinced that the way to get ready is to get ready to _fight_. Not this time.”

“So we’re back to the relocation slash extended vacation plan, then. I hear Catalina’s nice. We could take a boat. Just warning you, though, Scott gets seasick, and I’m about up to here with werewolf puke,” Stiles says. 

“Each alpha gets his own boat.” Derek looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “I guess some of you actually will have to pick, then, won’t you? Or swim.”

“Ha. Ha ha, that’s funny, especially the part where I wouldn’t have to worry about the hunting clans at all if this town weren’t _full of freaking werewolves_!”

“You’re a good swimmer, though,” Derek says, almost to himself. “Email me those links or something.”

“Derek.”

Derek turns sideways. “Stiles?”

“I’d ride on your stupid boat, alright?” Stiles admits. He runs his hand over his hair and looks at the wall to the left of Derek’s head.

“You don’t have to ride it out of pity,” Derek says quietly, his expression not changing.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s me. I’m the guy that does all kinds of stuff out of pity,” Stiles deadpans. “Though that might explain my lifelong friendship with Scott.”

Derek shrugs, like he can’t argue with that. “I should go.”

“Here, I’ll... go kick the circle or something,” Stiles says. “You should take another beer with you or something. Or some soup. We’ve got soup!”

“I’m fine,” Derek says, shaking his head. “No soup necessary.”

“Alright,” Stiles sighs. He turns towards the front door, but as he reaches for the doorknob, his hand drops to his side. “How bad is this going to be?”

“Not as bad as last time,” Derek says firmly.

“Last time was bad.”

“Yes.” Derek lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. “It will be better than that.”

“But how can you know that?” Stiles asks. “These guys sound worse than the alpha pack. How are we all going to walk away from this?”

“Because if we have to, we run,” Derek says. “Better to run and not— you know.”

Stiles opens the front door and steps out onto the porch. “Yeah. Running seems like a valid option, but hey! Maybe they aren’t really heading here. They could be going to any small, werewolf-ridden town in northern California, right?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Clausonville. They’ve got to have a few, right?”

“Maybe we should go over there and howl for a few nights,” Derek suggests. “If we made a recording, it might take them...a few hours to realize that it was faked.”

“Can I howl on the recording?” Stiles asks. “‘Cause that would be _awesome_!”

Derek nods. “Why not?”

“Sweet! I might have been practicing.”

Derek smiles at that, but it’s a little bit like his big fake smile, and Stiles is suddenly a lot less reassured. “There’s your answer, then. Email me the information, and keep practicing.”

Stiles walks down the porch and kick the line of mountain ash, sending it up in a small cloud of dust. “Will do. There you go, alpha boat captain,” he says, with a sweeping arm gesture. “You might want to clean out your pantry when you get home.”

‘Yeah.” Derek pauses. “Thanks.” Derek raises one hand and walks down the stairs, putting his hands in his pockets when he reaches the sidewalk, and he doesn’t look behind him even once. Stiles absolutely doesn’t watch him walk away, either.


	8. Awkward Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles needs a two-hour hiatus from death, drama, and Derek Hale.

Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon reading everything else on the website, cross-referencing all the information about the dead and missing pack members in cities across the southeast and up through Utah. Nothing in any of the articles about the deaths specifically mentions they’re werewolf-related, obviously, or that the person killed was a werewolf, but the nature of the deaths (slashed throats, bisection of the torso, and Stiles’s old familiar favorite, “wild animal attack”) seem to align with the what the website says. 

Freaking perfect.

“Okay, think, think,” Stiles mutters to himself. He rubs his eyes and lets out a puff of air. “Maybe they’re not for sure heading this way.”

Rereading and rereading the website doesn’t do anything for Stiles’s nerves or to magically predict where these hunting clans are heading. Stiles knows how to plot trajectory, though, and things don’t look so great for the werewolves of Beacon Hills. The last little red dot isn’t that far away. Would’ve been great if somebody had thought about shooting one of those werewolves up with a tracking tag.

Actually, Stiles can think of a few other werewolves who could use tracking tags, or maybe some kind of thought-translation device. Maybe that collar that turns barks into words like that dog in _UP_ had... because shut up, dog jokes? Always fun.

When Stiles decides he’s had enough obsessing over werewolves and werewolf-oriented things, he calls Scott (the irony of this is not lost on him, it’s just that everybody he knows at this point is either a werewolf or dating a werewolf, so an unironic phone call possibility doesn’t exist). 

“Hey, Scott. You still up for video games?”

“That was fast!” Scott says. “I didn’t know mountain ash stopped working all of a sudden like that.”

“Dude. Dumbass. I broke the circle,” Stiles says. “Anyway, I’m coming to you. I’ve been in this house too long and the whole place smells like Derek.”

“Oh. Okay, sure!” Scott agrees. “Just don’t forget my controller, dude.”

“I’m not the one who forgets stuff,” Stiles says, before he hangs up. He goes to grab his keys and remembers his Jeep is still parked outside the animal clinic. “Well, crap. Guess I’m walking.”

He finds Scott’s controller, then peeks out the front door for any lingering creeper-wolves. The coast looks clear, and his Jeep is actually parked in front of the house, looking shinier than he’s possibly ever seen it. It’s even cleaner on the inside, no smell of death-puke, and he makes a mental note to send Lydia some flowers or buy her some jewelry or sign over his hypothetical firstborn child as a show of his most enthusiastic thanks.

When Stiles gets to Scott’s place, Scott is out on the porch, tossing a hacky sack around. “You want me to throw that for you so you can play fetch?” Stiles offers.

Scott catches it in his hand and frowns. “Funny. You finally send Derek home?”

“Does anybody send Derek anywhere?” Stiles asks. “He just shows up whenever and leaves whenever. It’s kind of internal wolf clock or something like that.”

“So why’d he show up again?” Scott stands and opens the door, letting Stiles walk in ahead of him. 

“Death-puke. Black, viscous death puke.”

“And you let him puke in your house? Dude, I bet your dad was _pissed_!”

“Dude. Not all over my house,” Stiles says. “Just in the bathroom. He did puke all over my Jeep though, and that pretty much just sucked ass.”

“I’d make him clean it up,” Scott says almost gleefully. “You were nicer than I’d be. What else did he want?”

“Not to die, I guess?” Stiles shrugs. “I mean, he had some stuff for me to take a look at the other night. Paper stuff, I mean! Like, research stuff!”

Scott gives him an odd look, but doesn’t say anything, just nods his head slowly. “What kind of research stuff? I’d kind of hoped for a quiet summer, you know.”

“What? Are you _new_ or something?” Stiles gapes at Scott like he’s the single biggest idiot Stiles has ever met... which he probably is.

“A guy can hope!” Scott protests, flinging himself down on the sofa. “A nice quiet start to junior year. Maybe a few months without any kind of injury. It could happen.”

“Sure... if you _moved_. Oh, and managed to get your self de-wolfed.”

“Well, what’d Derek say? He’s so hard to understand. I never know why he does half of the things he does.”

Stiles starts to snort derisively, but then he chokes on it, so what comes out is a dying guppy sound, and he has to cough a few times to clear his throat. Scott looks concerned and smacks him on the back, totally forgetting about his werewolf-enhanced strength and knocking Stiles onto the floor, where he sprawls in what he hopes is a quasi-dignified manner while he grumbles, “Werewolves always trying to kill me. All of you guys.”

“Not Boyd or Isaac,” Scott protests. “They haven’t tried to kill you that I know of. And Derek hasn’t lately. Has he?”

Stiles raises his hand, while he’s still lying face-down on the floor. “Yeah, Isaac tried to kill me that one time.”

“Okay, not Boyd,” Scott concedes. “I didn’t think anyone had lately, though. You’re just being paranoid.”

“Yeah? Oh yeah?” Stiles asks, finally pushing himself back up into a seated position. “Pretty sure Peter tried to freaking _eat me_ the other day!”

“Dude! You didn’t tell me about that! What happened?” Scott looks disturbingly like a freshman girl eager for hot gossip.

“Yeah, he offered me ‘the bite’ again,” Stiles says, pointedly using air quotes as obnoxiously as possible in Scott’s general direction. “And by offered, I mean showed up in my bedroom and pinned me against the wall by my door.”

“How did you get him to leave?”

“Uh. Derek.”

“Oh, cool, cool.” Scott nods. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Derek, dude.”

“No, he’s been spending a lot of time with me!” Stiles insists. “That’s completely different. Totally different. Not at all the same thing!”

“No, no, that’s great that you’re getting along so well!” Scott says. “It’s good you two can hang out.”

“We weren’t hanging out. I was providing supervision while he was recovering from being poisoned.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re _friends_ with him,” Scott teases. “You can admit it.”

“No, we’re not. We’re not friends,” Stiles says. “We’re... allies.”

“I didn’t know we were going to war,” Scott snorts. 

Stiles rubs his hands across his face and sighs. “Oh, shit, man, you have no idea.”

“Huh?” Scott looks confused. 

“So, you remember that alpha pack we dealt with back in the spring?”

“Uh, yeah. Stiles, I’m not that stupid.”

“I’d never attempt to put limits on you, man,” Stiles says, patting Scott on the leg reassuringly. “But yeah, so... those guys were pretty badass. We might have a slightly bigger group of slightly badder asses headed in our direction.”

“Aww, man,” Scott groans. “There goes my quiet summer.”

“So sorry to ruin it for you,” Stiles deadpans. “Mine’s been full of puking and random werewolves showing up in my bedroom and kissing—”

“What? Kissing?” Scott brightens.

“What?” Stiles repeats. “Nothing!”

“You said kissing! Who were you kissing?”

“What? Did I say kissing? I mean, uh. _Missing_! I’ve been missing... uh. Allison! On your behalf, all those great times we all used to have, in between the running and the being shot at and...” Stiles trails off with a heaved sigh.

“Oh, wait! There was this strange werewolf at the grocery store,” Scott says. “His cart only had meat in it. Just pork chops and chuck roast, and when the check-out guy asked him if he need steak sauce, this werewolf just growled at him.”

“Dude. And you didn’t think you needed to maybe mention that to somebody? Like, _right away_?”

“I forgot about it until now?” Scott says with a shrug, like he’s not sure if that’s really the answer he wants to give. 

“It was just the one guy? You’re sure?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, just him.”

“Did he notice you?”

“He didn’t introduce himself or anything,” Scott says, shrugging again. “I mean, I don’t think he did. He was in a hurry, like he didn’t want to be there.”

“Great, now I’ve got to call Derek,” Stiles says. 

“What’s wrong with calling Derek?”

“We, uh. Had an awkward moment.”

“Oh.” Scott nods. “Okay. Well, it can wait until after video games, right?”

Stiles pauses for a second to think about, then makes a decision. “Yeah, I’ll call him in a little while. My brain seriously needs a short break from crisis mode or I’m going to have a meltdown,” he says. “He didn’t notice you and it was just the one guy, right?”

“Yeah, just the one.”

“Then I think Beacon Hills can survive if I take a two-hour hiatus from death, drama, and Derek Hale.”

They play video games until around six, when Scott’s mom shows up and chases Stiles off, claiming she can’t afford to keep feeding the both of them without prior warning. Stiles goes through a drive-through for a drink and some curly fries, then he drives out to the Clausonville PetSmart to buy that dog whistle and a bigger squirt bottle. He harasses the lizards for a while, because they remind him of Jackson, and the sun has dropped low on the horizon before he manages to convince himself he has to leave the PetSmart and call Derek.

“Alright, we’ll keep this quick and professional,” he mutters to himself as he calls Derek. The phone rings three times before he’s hit by a sudden impact and the phone flies from his hand. He can hear Derek’s voice coming from the phone when it hits the ground. 

“Stiles? Stiles?” There’s a moment’s pause. “Stiles, are you okay? Where are you, Stiles?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Peter says. “Did I interrupt your phone call?”

“Stiles? Stiles, is that Peter? Where are you?”

“Ahhh!” Stiles squawks. “Holy—what is it with you people? I don’t want the bite, I don’t want to join anybody’s pack, I just want to go home with my purchases.”

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice says again. “Stiles, are you okay? I wish you’d answer me, Stiles.”

“No! I am not freaking _okay_!” Stiles shouts in the direction of his phone, before turning back to Peter. “And _you_! With the sneaking up on me, and the knocking my stuff around, I have just _had_ it with werepeople this week!”

“Stiles?”

“Yes, Derek!” Stiles yells at his phone. “I’m in the parking lot of the PetSmart, about to be eaten by your uncle!”

“Tell me you didn’t buy a dog whistle,” Peter says, with a disappointed shake of his head. “Really, Stiles.”

“It’s not for you, you dick. It’s for Scott.”

“Stiles. Stay there.” 

“Yeah, I’m in real danger of leaving,” Stiles mutters to himself. “Look, Peter, you know what? Bite me or don’t bite me. If you bite me, I _still_ won’t be a part of your pack. In fact, if you bite me, I’ll just hand you right over to the hunting clans wrapped in a big, shiny Christmas bow. It’ll be red, to match your eyes.”

Peter looks somewhat taken aback, like he’s not entirely sure which part of the wall of words he needs to pay the most attention to. “I’m sorry. Hunting clans?”

“You can just do the research yourself this time,” Stiles says, picking up his phone. “I’m full up on werewolves tonight. Werewolf quota reached.” As soon as he finishes his sentence, his phone starts blaring the dulcet tones of Duran Duran, and Stiles sighs as he answers the phone. “Yes, Scott?”

“Wait. You kissed Derek?”


	9. Fuck the Woodcutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a fairy tale moment and cake is used as a metaphor.

“Kinda busy, Scott,” Stiles says into the phone. “And no. He kissed me, but that’s totally irrelevant. I mean, _no_ , there was no kissing!”

“Dude.” Scott sounds a little stunned. “I mean, I was kinda surprised when I figured it out, but no, that’s awesome! That makes a lot of sense.”

“Figured what out? How does this make sen— _Scott_! Busy!”

“What’s going on?” Scott asks. “Where _are_ you? Oh! Are you with Derek right now?”

“No. Scott. Call you later.” Stiles ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket. He looks at Peter. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Peter asks, with an exaggerated shrug. “I find this turn of events interesting.”

“I find this turn of events _way_ down on the list of events I need in my life right now,” Stiles says. “So, like I said before. Bite me, don’t bite me, pee on my shoes, I don’t even freaking _care_ at this point. I have bigger shit to think about than you, Peter!”

“Stiles, I’m hurt,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound hurt, though Stiles would sort of like to hurt him. “I’d never pee on your shoes. I’m violent and single-minded, but I’m not gauche.”

“Yeah, you’re the height of class,” Stiles says under his breath. He raises his voice to ask, “How do you keep finding me, anyway? And don’t say you followed my smell, because that’s just creepy, and I’m full up on creepy today, alright?”

Peter raises his eyebrows and makes a small ‘hmm’ noise, but he takes a step back and raises his hands in apparent surrender. “Just using the same little trick we used to find Scott,” Peter says, and Stiles looks down at his phone like it has personally offended him, which it has.

“I’m fixing that when I get home,” Stiles says. “But you, you can bite, pee, or leave. Three choices, not complicated, just do whatever you’ve gotta do so I can carry on with my night.”

Peter sighs and his eyes roll skyward. “You’re no fun at all.”

“And yet somehow, mysteriously, I’m _fine_ with that.”

Peter frowns, but he slinks off—and seriously, how does this guy get around so fast? It’s like he’s got some little stealth werewolf-cycle stashed somewhere. Stiles lets himself into the Jeep, chucks his bag into the passenger seat, and then sprawls across the entire driver’s side. He toys with the idea of driving home, but he knows Derek would just show up there and probably throw him into something... or eat more of his cake or something like that. 

Maybe he should take up smoking or dip or something, so he’s got something to keep himself occupied while he’s waiting for werewolves. _Waiting for Werewolves_ is _so_ going to be his memoir’s title, if he lives long enough to write a memoir. Odds don’t seem particularly high, but them’s the breaks. 

He’s mentally writing the first part of chapter one—“How My Best Friend Got Bitten By a Psychotic Werewolf and Ruined and/or Improved Both Our Lives”—when Derek’s car comes screeching to a stop next to the Jeep. Derek climbs over and walks to Stiles’s open window, sticking his head in without any invitation. 

“Peter left?” Derek asks. His nose does the twitchy thing it does when he’s creeper-sniffing, but it doesn’t even really bother Stiles this time. Comparatively, it’s actually somewhat comforting, which is sort of disturbing in its own way. 

“Yeah, I ran him off with the power of decision making,” Stiles says. “Everybody knows that making decisions is terrifying.”

“Good.” Derek nods. “Ride back with me?”

“Look, Derek, my Jeep’s finally clean, and I don’t know about leaving it in another parking lot overnight, so—”

“Boyd can drive it,” Derek cuts him off. “You can tell me why you were calling.”

“Oh, is Boyd—” Stiles peers around Derek to see Boyd seated in Derek’s passenger seat, silently watching Stiles and Derek with a look on his face that indicates he’s put out by this whole situation. “Hey Boyd.”

“Hey,” Boyd answers, like even that much conversation pains him. 

Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles and opens the door to the Jeep. “Well?”

“You’re not actually going to accept no for an answer, are you?” Stiles asks.

“Why would you say no?” Derek shrugs.

“No reason. Just, none, no reason at all,” Stiles says, grabbing his PetSmart bag and climbing out of the Jeep. Boyd gets out of Derek’s car and walks around, hand out for the keys, and Stiles hands them over with a slight shake of his head. “Just don’t puke in my Jeep.”

Boyd narrows his eyes, but doesn’t otherwise respond to Stiles as he gets into the Jeep. “I’ll park it at Scott’s,” he says to Derek, and then he drives off in Stiles’s Jeep, leaving Stiles standing in the parking lot next to Derek’s car.

“Why is he parking it at Scott’s?” Stiles asks. “Are we going to Scott’s?”

“Your dad thinks you’re at Scott’s,” Derek explains. “Scott called him. After Boyd called Scott.”

“Dude, I said we’re _not_ involving my dad in this. Am I staying at Scott’s for real? Or are we going somewhere for nefarious werewolf purposes? ‘Cause seriously, full up on wereshit tonight.”

Derek frowns. “We’ll talk. If you want to go to Scott’s after that, I’ll drive you over.”

“Alright,” Stiles sighs. “Well, lay on, MacDuff.”

Derek climbs back into his car and starts it, gesturing to the passenger side door. “You have to get in, then.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. I knew that.” Stiles gets into the car and buckles his seatbelt. “Now you can lay on.”

Derek grins briefly before pulling out of the lot. “So why’d you call?” he asks after they’re on the road back towards Beacon Hills.

“Yeeeah. Hunting clans problem? More immediate than we thought, I think,” Stiles says.

“Oh?” Derek looks over at Stiles briefly, then back at the road. “Why?”

“Scott saw a werewolf of unfamiliar origins purchasing a metric ton of meat at the grocery store. Apparently he took issue with steak sauce.”

Derek’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

“Hey, but on the plus side, he didn’t seem to notice Scott,” Stiles offers. “So, that’s something? Right?”

“Right.” Derek doesn’t sound totally convinced, though. “So they’re...here. Or some of them are here, anyway.”

“And they’re picky eaters, apparently. Who knew?”

“It’s probably part of their philosophy,” Derek says thoughtfully. “If they’re trying to be more like wolves than humans, that is.” He doesn’t speak for a long moment, then when he does, it’s quiet. “I wasn’t trying a ploy to get you to join my pack.”

“I don’t even know why you’d want me in your pack,” Stiles confesses. “I don’t really bring that much to the table other than apparently I smell like Kibbles n’ Bits.”

“You made Peter Hale back down,” Derek says, smiling slightly. “That’s something, Stiles. That’s not the only thing, but that’s something.”

“I don’t have super powers. I’m not as smart as Lydia.” Stiles pulls at the shoulder strap of his seatbelt and looks out the window. “Any of you guys could do the research I do if you’d just sit down at a computer for fifteen minutes. If all I’ve got to offer is my big mouth and the ability to chase off Peter, that’s still not that much.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Derek parks the car and climbs out, then stands in front of it, clearly waiting for Stiles. Stiles gets out of the car and shuts the door.

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe. Mostly.”

Derek’s hand starts to come up, then he puts it down and shakes his head. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Come on.” He tilts his head to the side and starts walking. Stiles follows behind him, trying not to stumble down the stairs in the dark. He’s doing fine until about halfway down, where something growing up through the concrete snags the toe of his shoe, sending Stiles pitching forward. Derek wheels around, catching Stiles by the arms. “Okay there?” he asks, releasing one arm when Stiles is steady.

Derek’s other hand is still wrapped around Stiles’s other wrist, and for a second, Stiles isn’t sure if he’s okay or not. “Uh, I think so?”

“Just hang on to me until we reach the bottom,” Derek says, his hand sliding from Stiles’s wrist to take his hand, and he starts down the stairs again. Stiles lets himself be led without argument, not trying to disentangle his hand from Derek’s hand, not even when they get to the bottom of the stairs. Derek doesn’t let go, either, and that should probably be a lot weirder than it feels, but given the day (two days, really, but who’s counting?) Stiles has had, it seems like one of the less-weird moments. It’s kind of nice, actually. 

“So, uh. Where’s Isaac?” Stiles finally asks, just to have something to say as the two of them approach the train that serves as Derek and his pack’s residence. 

“Oh, he’s at Scott’s,” Derek says almost absently. “Want to sit down?”

The train’s interior is definitely improved by the addition of actual chairs, though it’s still a train in an abandoned tunnel, so improvement doesn’t mean _that_ much better. The chairs look relatively clean at least. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” Stiles says, and he tries to sit without letting go of Derek’s hand, then realizes that’s probably even weirder than the hand-holding to begin with, so he lets go and sit, resting that hand on his knee. “So. Uh. The chairs are new.”

Derek looks sheepish. “I got them on craigslist.”

“Well, they’re... really color-coordinated. And plaid! They’re really plaid.”

Derek grins for a second. “Yeah, they’re definitely plaid.” He sits down in a different plaid chair, then puts his forehead in his hand. “So. Uh. Hunting clans. Right.”

“Right,” Stiles says, nodding. “Hunting clans. That... sucks.”

“We need a ‘no vacancy’ sign for the town or something,” Derek says, shifting in his seat. “Do you think that’d work?”

“Maybe we can just hang up a sign that says ‘closed’.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” Derek says, laughing for a second, then staring at Stiles. “Don’t use your magic getting rid of alpha powers on me, okay?”

“Huh, my wha—” 

Derek leans forward as Stiles is talking, and then he’s kissing Stiles again, harder this time, and he puts both arms around Stiles, pulling him closer. Stiles still isn’t expecting it, but he doesn’t pull away this time, and he just sort of decides _fuck it_ and kisses Derek back.  
Derek starts to pull back just a few seconds later, not speaking, just staring at Stiles. 

Stiles stares back for a few seconds, then says, “If I got rid of you, who would eat my cake?”

Derek’s lips twitch. “It’s good cake, Stiles.”

“It’s awesome cake. It didn’t even come from a box.”

“I could tell.” This time Derek actually grins, still staring at Stiles.

It’s surprisingly unawkward, all things considered, which of course means Stiles has to do his best to awkward it up again by saying, “So... this isn’t awkward like usual. Do you think it’s the train?”

Derek shakes his head. “Yes, Stiles. It’s the train.” He leans forward again, then stops, looking questioningly at Stiles. Stiles’s brain is still partially in the _fuck it_ headspace, but that part of him that isn’t thinks that the look of uncertainty on Derek’s face is simultaneously disconcerting and cute, and the fact that Stiles thinks it’s cute is even _more_ disconcerting. Luckily, the _fuck it_ part of his brain takes over again, and he nods and leans forward and lets Derek kiss him again. 

This time, Derek parts his lips and runs his tongue along Stiles’s lips, and he half-climbs onto Stiles’s craigslist-plaid chair. As Stiles opens his mouth under Derek’s, the logical part of his brain (which is on the opposite side from the _fuck it_ part) suggests that he might want to get this werewolf off of him before the wolf eats him up and he has to wait for a woodcutter to come chop him free. Instead of doing the logical thing, Stiles just pulls away long enough to mutter “fuck the woodcutter” and then goes right back to making out with the big bad wolf.

Derek shifts his weight again, and he’s basically sitting in Stiles’s lap, hands tightening in Stiles’s shirt. And yeah, it’s all sort of weird, because it’s Derek, but it’s also pretty awesome, because it’s _Derek_ , who is simultaneously the most terrifying and the hottest guy in Beacon Hills, possible North America. Also, Stiles’s dad was wrong, and Stiles could totally be gay; he’s _not_ , but he _could_ be, because definitely down with the dude-kissing. 

At first, Stiles thinks the ringing sound is just in his ears, because kissing Derek could probably definitely do that, make somebody’s ears ring. Derek pulls away, though, growling and fumbling in his pockets.

“That’s your phone,” Stiles says, feeling a little stupid even as he says it. “It’s ringing.”

Derek pulls it out and scowls at his phone, growling again before answering it. “This better be really damn important, Boyd.”

“Is that Boyd?” Stiles asks, because apparently he’s been rendered temporarily moronic by the power of werekissing. Derek pulls the phone away from his face and nods, then replaces it. 

“Repeat that.”

The look on Derek’s face is serious and troubled. “Hey, what’s going on?” Stiles asks him. 

“We’re on our way,” Derek says into the phone, hanging up as soon as he finishes speaking, and then he looks at Stiles, standing up and offering Stiles a hand. “Hunting clan’s here. Or at least more than one of them is. Isaac and Scott got roughed up.”

“Oh crap, are they okay?” Stiles takes Derek’s hand and lets Derek pull him to his feet. Neither of them let go, even after Stiles is standing, and somehow the hand-holding is still weirder than the kissing. 

“I think so. Boyd said something about wolfsbane in Scott’s wound, but that doesn’t make any sense,” Derek explains, heading towards the stairs with his hand still wrapped around Stiles’s.

“If anybody could manage that, Scott could,” Stiles sighs. “Great. I thought we’d have more time.” He lets Derek lead him up the dark stairs, and he doesn’t stumble at all this time. 

“Yeah.” Derek nods a little as they step outside. “Me too.”

“Well, to the wolfmobile, I guess,” Stiles says. They walk to Derek’s car, and Derek opens the passenger door for Stiles, all without letting go of Stiles’s hand. “You... opened my door?”

Derek shrugs kind of awkwardly and gestures to the door, like it’s exhibit A in evidence or something. “Yes.” He starts to let go of Stiles’s hand, and Stiles catches it again.

“Hey, c’mere a second,” Stiles says, pulling Derek closer. He angles his face towards Derek’s, but right before their lips can touch, Stiles diverts his head to the left and takes a big, long sniff of the side of Derek’s neck.

“Are you...sniffing me?” Derek asks.

“It’s only fair, right? You keep sniffing me,” Stiles says. He sniffs again, letting his nose bump against the edge of Derek’s jaw.

“Oh.” Derek seems to almost relax a little. “What, uh. What do you smell?”

“Cake. You smell like cake. Have you been eating somebody else’s cake?” Stiles asks, doing his best to imitate Derek’s alpha-voice. “Don’t do that.”

“Right,” Derek says, sounding slightly amused. “I’ll remember that. No cake.”

“No. No _somebody else’s_ cake.”

“No cake except for Stiles’s cake,” Derek agrees.

“Exactly,” Stiles says. He snuffles Derek’s neck one more time before pulling away. “Okay, let’s go save some betas! And Scott!”


	10. Sacrificial Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who alphas the alphas?

“The Three Stooges went back to Scott’s,” Derek says once they’re speeding down the road. “I couldn’t figure out where they were when they met up with the scout.”

Stiles snorts a little laugh. “Yeah,well, you tried to get an explanation from a guy who thinks three words is a conversation.”

Derek glances at Stiles, seemingly amused. “Good point. I could hear Scott whining in the background, though.”

Stiles sobers at that. “But he’s okay, right? I mean, I know you said wolfsbane, but Boyd had to be confused about that.”

“I think so.” Derek shrugs. “I think they were both more concerned about Isaac at first.”

“Yeah, of course they were, after—after last time,” Stiles says, wincing when he sees the look on Derek’s face. It’s not a glare or a glower; he just looks sad, and that’s worse, somehow. “But he’s okay, too?”

“He was talking to Scott and sounded okay,” Derek nods, and it’s not clear if he’s reassuring Stiles or himself. 

“Yeah, hey, so everyone’s alright, right? So that’s good.” 

“Yes. That’s good,” Derek repeats, pulling to a stop in front of Scott’s house, behind Stiles’s Jeep. 

“Looks like my Jeep made it here in one piece, anyway,” Stiles says. 

“It’s like you’re already here,” Derek says dryly as they walk up to the door. 

“Yeah, funny how that works,” Stiles answers. Before he can knock on the door, it opens, Boyd standing there in the doorway looking enigmatic. Boyd takes a step away from the door and gestures inside. Derek nods at Boyd and steps inside, stopping to look around beifore he nods again at Stiles and walks further into the house. 

“You said something about wolfsbane?” Derek asks. Stiles walks into the house and closes the door behind him, locking it.

“Yeah,” Boyd says. “In the scratches. They won’t heal and he says they burn. Smell funny, too.” Boyd points in the direction of the sofa, where Scott is writhing on the sofa, his head resting in Isaac’s lap. Isaac looks worried and keeps gently patting Scott’s hair. 

“If it’s wolfsbane, it’s a good thing nobody tried to lick them,” Stiles says, then realizes Boyd and Isaac both giving him a strange look. “I mean, uh.”

“Owww,” Scott moans. “Why would someone lick them? Ouch. Shit, this hurrrts.”

“In many cases,” Derek says in a lecturing tone, “such an action would aid in healing. Stiles is correct, however, that in this instance, uh. It would be bad.”

“Because wolfsbane,” Stiles adds.

“Right. Because of the wolfsbane,” Derek says, nodding. “Stiles is right.”

“Awww,” Scott says, then cuts himself off with another moan. “Fuck, how do we get rid of this wolfsbane?”

“We need to get those cuts cleaned out,” Stiles says. He tries to sound like he knows what he’s talking about. It’s not even entirely off the cuff, either. Werewolf scratches in general equal nasty. “Hey, Boyd. Put him in the shower, crank up the hot water.”

Boyd looks at Derek and doesn’t move. Derek rolls his eyes and glares at Boyd. “What are you waiting for?”

Boyd nods and helps Scott up onto his feet, and Scott whines, gripping Boyd’s arm. “Big baby,” Stiles can hear Boyd grumbling as he hauls Scott towards the bathroom. “Isaac didn’t bitch like that when he had half his body crushed.”

Derek looks like he’s fighting a snicker as he turns to Isaac. “What happened?”

“They came out of nowhere,” Isaac says. “One of them threw a log at me. I was already on the ground before the other one came after Scott.”

“Wait, a _log_?” Stiles repeats. “They threw a log at you?”

“Hit me in the back of the head and I fell,” Isaac explains. “I tried to get to Scott in time, but the werewolf who clawed him was so fast.” He shudders and adds, “Scott screamed so loud. I knew there was something wrong, more than just the injury. They were just so fast and so big.”

“So there were two of them? Not more than that?” Derek asks, frowning. 

“Two was enough. If Boyd hadn’t been there...” Isaac puts his face in his hands. “I don’t want us to lose anybody else.” Nobody handled what happened to Erica well—how could they?—but it hit Isaac the hardest. Maybe he was too busy healing to build a wall inside like the rest of them did.

Derek sighs and looks really sad again. “Where were you when they found you?” he finally asks. 

“We went to get something to eat. Boyd wanted Taco Bell. We were just getting back into Scott’s car when the log hit me,” Isaac says. 

“So they either noticed Scott, and he didn’t realize it, or they found us more quickly than we thought,” Derek says, turning to Stiles. 

“Either way, we’re screwed if we don’t figure something out, like, _now_ ,” Stiles says. “Okay, so don’t get pissed off when I suggest what I’m about to suggest.”

“We’re not using anyone as bait,” Derek replies immediately.

“And it’s good to know that’s where your mind goes, but no,” Stiles says. “I was going to say maybe we should let the rest of the Beacon Hills wolves know what’s going on. _All_ of the rest of them.”

Derek sighs and then nods reluctantly. “A conference.”

“We’ve got to use whatever resources we have,” Stiles says. “I can give Lydia a call if you want to handle... the other call.”

“Tonight? Here?” Derek says, raising an eyebrow.

“Where else and when else?” Stiles counters. “Are we supposed to wait until they hurt someone even worse? Or kill them?”

“Wasn’t sure Scott’s mom would want a werewolf convention in her living room,” Derek mutters, pulling out his phone. 

“Years of knowing Mrs. McCall has taught me she’s fine with it as long as she knows absolutely nothing about it, we don’t damage anything, and nobody ever ever mentions it,” Stiles insists. He gives Derek a broad, toothy smile. 

Derek shakes his head slowly. “Right. Well, I can’t vouch for most of those who are outside my pack.”

“So, you _can_ vouch for Boyd, me, and Isaac, then?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Derek grins at Stiles and then holds up his phone. “We should, uh. Call.”

“I’m just going to go check on Scott now,” Isaac suddenly says. “I’ll be back there. Checking on Scott.”

“Yeah, we should call,” Stiles agrees. He pulls out his phone and thumbs through his contact list for Lydia’s number, occasionally sneaking a look over at Derek. Yeah, Stiles feels a little guilty for having such a good time, considering imminent death, dismemberment, or disfigurement may be on the horizon. 

Lydia’s phone rings two times before she answers. “Stiles, you do realize what time it is, do you not?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “I know it’s summer, but it’s a bit late to be calling for social reasons, nevertheless.”

“And hello to you, Lydia,” Stiles says buoyantly. “I just wanted to tell you thanks for the detailing on the Jeep. I don’t think it’s ever been that clean, actually, and the little air freshener thing, that was a nice touch. Also there’s a group of werewolf super-soldier Neo-Nazis in town that probably want to kill your boyfriend.”

“Stiles? Did you take too much Adderall again?” Lydia asks. “You’re welcome, though.”

“No. I haven’t had any Adderall. Well, I haven’t had any Adderall for a while, anyway,” Stiles says. “Can you get Jackson and bring him over to Scott’s?”

Lydia says something to someone else, away from the phone, then responds to Stiles. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. It’s that serious?”

“They threw a log at Isaac and one of them somehow managed to get wolfsbane into Scott with their claws, so yeah, we’ll call it that serious.”

Lydia pauses for a second. “Right. See you soon, Stiles.”

“See you, Lydia.” Stiles ends the call. “Well, that went well at least.” He looks over at Derek, who’s scowling and still listening to the phone. 

“Just get here. We can all argue in person,” Derek says, ending the call and looking at Stiles. “Lydia and Jackson are on their way?”

“Lydia’s a professional. She won’t argue, she’ll just tell us what we’re doing wrong,” Stiles points out. “And when she does, we should listen to her. Peter, not so much.”

Derek frowns again and shakes his head, sitting down on the sofa. “Peter would argue that it’s not summer if he thought it would get him somewhere.”

“Well, Peter’s a lunatic jackass who spends too much money on shoes and skin care products.” Stiles sits down next to Derek, not _right_ up in his personal space, but not _not_ in his personal space. “So, uh. Hey.”

Derek shifts, his leg pressing against Stiles’s. “Hey.” He turns his head to look at Stiles. “How long until Lydia and Jackson were going to be here?”

“She said fifteen minutes. If Jackson’s driving, it’ll be ten.”

“Ten minutes.” Derek nods. “Peter’ll take at least that long.” Derek raises one eyebrow, then tilts his head towards the back of the house, where Isaac, Scott, and Boyd still are. 

“Should we check on Scott, do you think?” Stiles asks. “I mean, it’s not like I can hold him in a shower any better than Boyd could, and they’d shout for us if something happened, right?”

“Right. They would.” Derek nods. “I’m sure they don’t need us right now.”

“Yeah, what good are we? We’re not helpful at all.”

“We should... entertain ourselves, so we’re not in the way,” Derek suggests, grinning a little.

“‘Entertain ourselves’, seriously?” Stiles laughs. “Are you from a 1980s porn? Are you about to pretend to be an electrician?”

“I saw that one,” Derek admits, then he shakes his head. “I mean, no. No electricians.”

“Good, ‘cause if you were about to offer to fix my wiring, I was going to go back in the back and ask Boyd to drown me in the bathtub.”

“Maybe we’re talking too much,” Derek says, leaning forward with another grin.

“I’m always talking too mu—” Derek cuts him off by kissing him, arm sliding around Stiles and holding him in place. Stiles briefly notes how great it is that in the middle of all the drama of injured friends, crazy uncles, and werewolf racial cleansing, they can still prioritize the really important stuff, like making out. Because making out is definitely an urgently important thing right at this moment.

Derek apparently agrees about the urgency of making out, because he hauls Stiles closer, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. Stiles throws his leg across Derek’s lap and practically drapes himself along Derek’s body, and judging by the noise Derek makes and the tightening of his arm around Stiles, he approves of that action. Stiles somehow manages to note every sound Derek makes, the way his face prickles against Stiles’s face, all of his little movements, and all without overanalyzing any of it, which is probably a first, because Stiles alway over-analyzes everything, ever.

Stiles slides his hand under the hem of Derek’s shirt and moves it slowly up Derek’s stomach. It’s good that Derek’s a werewolf, because no actual human could have abs like that, Stiles is pretty sure. Derek pushes his hips up against Stiles, his mouth pulling away just enough for him to nip at Stiles’s lower lip. Stiles squawks a little, because still a _little_ scary to get bitten by a werewolf, even in a sexy way, even one who’s—oh, holy mother of God, Derek rocks his hips forward against Stiles, and Stiles grinds back down against Derek, and sure, biting, biting is cool.

Now Derek’s hands are both under Stiles’s shirt, moving on Stiles’s back, and he bites down almost gently on Stiles’s lip again as he brings one hand around to Stiles’s chest. Derek’s hand drifts down, skimming over the scratches Peter left, and his kissing turns a little fiercer again. Stiles can vaguely hear some completely irrelevant background noise, and he puts his other hand on the back of Derek’s head and pulls him closer, bringing the kiss right to the edge of pain. 

“So, Boyd, do you know about these werewolf Neo-Na—Oh. Oh my, Stiles, Jackson I told you he sounded too happy!”

Stiles pulls away from Derek just enough to look at Lydia and Jackson standing by the front door, Lydia looking surprised and Jackson looking horrified and slightly nauseated. Boyd and Isaac stand slightly to the side, Boyd’s face as impassive as ever, though Isaac looks apologetic and mildly embarrassed. 

“Uh, hey, Lydia,” Stiles says, sounding a little drunk even to himself. “What’s up?”

“Apparently quite a lot,” Lydia answers. She looks around the room and frowns. “Where’s Scott?”

“That’s why you’re here,” Derek says, his hand still under Stiles’s shirt and holding Stiles on his lap. “We have a new problem, and Scott took the brunt of the first encounter.”

“Boyd put him in the shower to wash out the wolfsbane,” Stiles says, like that’s some kind of explanation. “But he’s probably going to be fine. Nobody yelled for us.”

“Werewolves that fight with wolfsbane?” Lydia frowns and sits down in the chair, pointedly ignoring the extra space on the sofa. “That seems ill-advised.”

“It was on their claws,” Boyd interjects. “Their fingers were messed-up looking.”

“They hit me with a log,” Isaac adds. 

“And those were most likely just some scouts for the larger group.” Derek manages to sound like he always conducts meetings with a lapful of Stiles. “But we need to wait for...the other werewolf in town.” He makes a face and exchanges a glance with Stiles. 

“Hey, no more pissing contest, at least?” Stiles offers. He’s still mostly draped across Derek, with his hand on Derek’s abs, which seems like a strange way to have a serious conversation about anything with anyone. Derek doesn’t seem in a hurry to shove Stiles off his lap, though, so Stiles is happy to just go with it, since he’s not aware of any specific protocols involving making out with werewolves.

Derek’s hand flexes against Stiles’s skin as he nods. “He’s probably being slow on purpose,” Derek says, almost grumbling. 

The front door creaks open, and Peter’s voice calls out, “I did hear that, you know.”

“Good!” Stiles and Derek both chorus together. 

Peter enters the room and stands by the sofa, giving Stiles (still totally playing the role of Derek Hale’s throw blanket) and Derek the once-over. “Now, this is a slight change of situation.” He tsks once and shakes his head. “How did you manage to talk him into that, Derek?”

Derek glares at Peter and doesn’t answer, but he does turn Stiles around, his arm around Stiles’s waist. Derek pulls Stiles’s back against his chest and then runs his fingers over Stiles’s stomach again as he continues to glare at Peter.

“Yeah, I’m the one who talked _him_ into it, actually,” Stiles says, leaning back against Derek. “Or more like he finally had to come up with something to shut me up, ‘cause you know that once I get going, it’s just yap yap yap, like a little yappy dog.” Stiles grins at Peter. “Kind of a lot like you.”

“Remember, I have a taser,” Lydia says. “It’s police-grade and could possibly take out a pair of Clydesdales.”

“With such a warm welcome, it’s amazing I didn’t rush to get here,” Peter says with a huff. “Why am I here exactly? None of what you said on the phone sounded like something I should be concerned about.”

“Do you not notice who _isn’t_ in this room?” Derek asks. “We have a problem. An entire group of problems, actually.” He narrows his eyes for a moment, then shakes his head. “Stiles?”

“We should get everyone caught up first, then the three of you can decide what the plan should be,” Stiles says. “Well, the three of you and possibly Lydia... and her taser.”

Something about that makes Derek stiffen a little, but then he relaxes. “You did the research.”

Stiles shrugs. “She’s smarter, and the three of you are the alphas.”

Lydia and Peter both start to laugh, and then Lydia stops, glaring at Peter. “Stiles,” Lydia says, once Peter is quiet, “we all know you tell at least two of the alphas what to do. You say jump, and they don’t even wait to ask how high.”

“Which two?” Jackson asks, obviously holding back his own laughter. 

Lydia shakes her head. “Not now, Jackson.”

“It’s a perfectly valid question,” Jackson mumbles. 

“The point is,” Derek says, “there’s a group of werewolves, sometimes known as a hunting clan, headed here. They’ve already sent scouts, and they aren’t going to like us. _Any_ of us.” Peter starts to raise his hand. “That means _none_ of us, Peter. Not even you.”

Peter lowers his hand and looks like he’s actually sulking. Boyd puts his hand on Isaac’s shoulder and says, “We’ll get Scott.” The two of them leave the room and return shortly with a still-damp, but much less writhing-in-pain Scott, one of his arms across Isaac’s shoulder and the other clinging to Boyd’s arm.

Scott looks around and when he spots Stiles on Derek’s lap, he grins. Stiles waves at Scott and says, “Hey buddy! You all in one piece now? I was going to come back there and check on you—”

“Nah,” Scott cuts him off, still grinning. “You were doing important stuff.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Jackson asks.

“Focus, Jackson,” Lydia says, loudly enough that Jackson doesn’t seem to hear whatever it is Scott is muttering. 

“So, about that hunting clan that wants to kill the whole bunch of us!” Stiles says. He starts to sit forward slightly, but Derek’s arm keeps from moving too far, and then Derek tugs Stiles back against Derek’s chest again.

“They like werewolves who were born werewolves,” Derek explains. “And only associate with other born werewolves. They don’t offer humans the bite ever. They kill humans, and wolves who associate with humans. And now they’re coming here.”

“How do they know?” Scott asks, looking confused. “I guess it doesn’t matter, though.”

“How did the alpha pack know?” Stiles says. “Word gets around, and Beacon Hills has three alphas. That’s a lot of word.”

Derek mumbles something into Stiles’s back before he raises his voice. “But they are coming, and they aren’t waiting to see what we think about it. Today it was Scott and Isaac. We need some kind of plan. Other than three boats to Catalina.”

“But the boats are still the backup plan,” Stiles says. “Boyd, you, Isaac, and Jackson can go back to Scott’s room while the big, medium, and little bad wolves do their alpha thing.”

Lydia stands up, gesturing impatiently to Jackson, who sneers half-heartedly in Stiles’s direction before following her. Boyd and Isaac guide Scott to the empty seat on the sofa next to Derek and Stiles before retreating back to Scott’s bedroom.

“Boats?” Scott asks. “We have a back-up plan of boats?”

“Not really, Scott,” Stiles says. “I know you get seasick. It’s cool.”

“Oh, okay. What _are_ we going to do? The two that got us were fast. If there’s more of them...” Scott trails off, looking worried. 

“None of us are going to be stronger or faster than they are,” Derek says. “All they do is fight. We’re outnumbered and outmatched, I think.”

“As always, such a ray of sunshine,” Peter sighs. “So fighting them isn’t really an option? Could we at least _try_ before we concede Beacon Hills to the inbreeders?”

“Diplomacy!” Stiles declares. “We, uh. We negotiate some kind of treaty with them.”

“And what, exactly, do we offer them in exchange for their cooperation?” Peter asks. “Were you interested in volunteering to be the sacrificial virgin... while it’s still an accurate term to apply?”

“No, we’ll just offer them you,” Derek says blandly, but his free hand slides down Stiles’s side. It’s suddenly apparent to Stiles that Derek not only takes issue with the concept of Stiles as the sacrificial virgin, but that he might be considering rendering the terminology inaccurate. Like, _very_ apparent. 

“Maybe we can ask them what they want?” Scott speaks up. “They might just tell us.”

“Yeah, ‘cause communication skills are a werewolf strong point,” Stiles says. “Which of our master alpha public speakers is going to talk to them: Grumpy, Dopey, or Looney?”

“Or,” Peter says, “we could send you.”


	11. Stiles Stilinski, Alpha Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles claims his pack.

“I already said ‘no bait’,” Derek says, glaring at Peter. “No. Bait.”

“I didn’t say send him as bait,” Peter points out.

“Hey!” Stiles squirms until he can turn enough to look at Derek. “Why the assumption that if I go, I’m bait?”

“Sending anyone alone is bait,” Derek says, like that should have been obvious. 

“It is true that Stiles is less likely to put his foot in his mouth,” Scott says almost apologetically. 

“So what, then?” Stiles asks. “We all go together as a group and we fight and we all get our asses kicked?”

“We’re trying _not_ to fight,” Derek stresses. “But yes. _We_ should go as a group.” There’s something a little funny about how Derek says the second ‘we’, like it has some other meaning.

“Okay, fine. We’ll go as a group,” Stiles says, testing the waters. He has a sneaking suspicion what Derek’s response might be, and he already doesn’t like it.

“No,” Derek says, his hand running over the scratches on Stiles’s stomach yet again. “Not you and Lydia. The wolves.”

Stiles twists away from Derek’s arm, jerking his own arm away when Derek tries to hold him by the wrist. He finally contorts himself enough that he flops out of Derek’s lap and onto the sofa cushion between Derek and Scott. “So, research is enough to keep me in the room for the meeting, but not enough to let me actually _help_. That’s how it’s going to be?”

“We talked about people not getting hurt,” Derek says, clearly trying to sound reasonable. “You said it yourself.”

“ _Other_ people, Derek. Not _me_!”

“A lovers’ quarrel already?” Peter asks. “Really, Derek? You couldn’t even go a week without—”

“Shut up, Peter!” Stiles and Derek both shout.

“So you think you and Lydia should go?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I think Lydia should wait in the getaway vehicle with her phone ready to call the Argents,” Stiles snaps. “And don’t try to make this about Lydia. I’m not an idiot, Derek. I know what you’re doing.”

“I think Stiles should come with us,” Scott says, almost mumbling. Then he speaks up, louder and more clear. “And that’s a great idea about Lydia and the getaway car!”

“Thank you, Scott,” Stiles says, waving one hand in Scott’s general direction. “See? Scott thinks it’s a great idea, and he’s just as much an alpha as you are. Red eyes, scary teeth, the whole deal.”

Derek looks unimpressed, raising one eyebrow. “Fine.”

“That’s right, it’s fine,” Stiles says. “And you know what else? _I’m_ the one who’s meeting with them, and the rest of you are going to stand down until I give the signal. That’s what’s going to happen.” He looks over at Scott for support. “Isn’t that right, Scott?” Scott nods fervently. “See? Scott’s on my side.”

“Stiles, Scott would be on your side even if he didn’t understand what the sides were.” Derek shrugs almost apologetically. Scott returns the shrug like he’s not particularly bothered.

“That is beside the point,” Stiles insists. “The point is, you show up, any of the three of you, and this turns into a fight before it has a chance to be anything else. Scott would put his foot in his mouth, Peter would insult something they’re wearing, and you’d just stab them in effigy with your eye-daggers. I’m going.”

“He’s going,” Derek says blandly to Scott and Peter. “Go get the others. Let’s go find these scouts.”

“We’re stopping by my house on the way,” Stiles says. “I’ve got some stuff I need to get.”

“Right.” Derek shrugs. “Your house, then, and then the Taco Bell to pick up the trail.”

Scott gathers up the betas and Lydia, and Derek gives them a cursory explanation of the plan as they puppy pile into Derek and Jackson’s cars, with Lydia, Jackson, Boyd, and Isaac in Jackson’s Porsche, and Derek, Stiles, Scott, and Peter in Derek’s car. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, but Stiles is sure Peter would get tased if he rode in the same car as Lydia, and Stiles doesn’t want that to happen unless he’s there to see it himself. Maybe give the trigger a pull or two.

Derek idles the car in front of Stiles’s house while Stiles runs in and assembles his personal arsenal, which involves some frantic running around the house looking for things while the big pot of water full of dried wolfsbane comes to a boil on the stove. Stiles shoves another sprig into the bottom of one of his squirt bottles, along with a few ice cubes, and then pours the now-lavender-colored liquid inside. He puts a few tablespoons of the remaining mountain ash powder into the bottom of the other squirt bottle, and tops it off with the rest of the purpley wolfsbane water. He buckles a belt loosely around his hips and sticks the two squirt bottles into the belt, and the dog whistle in his back pocket. That’s as ready as he’s going to get. 

On his way out of the kitchen, Stiles grabs a few bottles of water and a large kitchen knife, which he shoves through the back of the belt. As Stiles leaves the house and approaches Derek’s car, he sees the resigned look on Derek’s face, but too bad for Derek; Stiles isn’t staying behind again while his friends are all putting themselves in danger. He’s not hearing about it all after the fact, not this time. If he’s going to feel guilty about what happens, he should be there to actually participate. 

“Roll the window down,” Derek says as Stiles gets back into the car. Scott makes a face and nods. “You don’t want three wolves’ worth of black puke, do you?” Derek continues.

Stiles rolls down the window and slides the knife out of his belt, setting it on the floor. “Hey, some of us don’t have claws or fangs, alright? Gotta make my own.”

“Fine. But you stink,” Derek says flatly. “It’s all about finding balance.”

“Again, easy to say when you’re the guy _with the claws_ ,” Stiles says. 

“Judicious application of wolfsbane has its place,” Peter remarks mildly from the backseat... where he’s leaning _far_ away from Stiles.

“He can apply some to you,” Derek says, sounding more upbeat already.

“I’ll pass,” Peter says. “Let’s carry on to the Taco Bell.”

“I’m going to judiciously apply some wolfsbane to everybody in this car,” Stiles grumbles. “Bitchingest bunch of alphas I’ve ever met.”

“Can we get a snack at Taco Bell? Being injured made me hungry,” Scott says.

“Sure, we’ll just go through the drive-through while we’re in the middle of— _no_ , you jackass!” Stiles snaps at Scott. “Seriously, Scott? We’ll get Taco Bell _after_.”

“Oh.” Scott sinks back against his seat. “Sorry.”

“We’re here,” Derek announces unnecessarily.

“Okay, then somebody get to sniffing,” Stiles says. “‘Cause I’m pretty much useless on that front.”

“Scott’s smelled them on two occasions,” Peter points out. 

“Right.” Scott squares his shoulders and after they’re all out of the Camaro, Scott walks to a different part of the parking lot. After a few minutes, he nods his head to the left. “This way!” he calls. 

“Subtle, Scott,” Stiles mutters. “Real subtle.”

Derek, Stiles, and Peter get out of the car, and across the parking lot, Lydia and the betas do the same. Lydia and the Betas would make a great band name, actually, and Stiles makes a mental note to tell Lydia she should consider an all-werewolf musical group when all this is over. He grabs the knife from Derek’s floorboard and sticks it back into his belt. 

“These woods go back quite a ways,” Derek comments. “They could easily be nearby. Finding Scott, Boyd, and Isaac could have been dumb luck on their part, unfortunately.”

“Great. More dumb, that’s exactly what we need,” Stiles says. Lydia slides into the driver’s seat of Jackson’s car, and Stiles gives her a thumbs up. “Just listen for the screams, I guess,” he says to her. 

“I do that on a more or less daily basis,” Lydia responds, smiling too brightly. 

“Guys!” Scott yells again. 

“Guess that’s my cue,” Stiles says. “Hey, Lydia?”

“Yes?”

“If anything happens, get Scott and Isaac out of here, okay?” Stiles pauses and glances in Derek’s direction before continuing with a lowered voice, “And tase Derek if you have to.”

“Stiles.” Lydia sighs but then nods, shooing Stiles in the direction of Scott’s voice. “Go on. I’ve got this end.”

“Okay. Cool,” Stiles says. His tone is studied nonchalance; he’s worked hard on that tone. He walks towards Scott’s voice, Derek and Peter behind him, and Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson presumably behind them. The moon isn’t full, but it’s close enough and bright enough that navigating through the woods isn’t that hard. When Stiles catches up with Scott, he asks, “Which way am I going?”

“Through there,” Scott says, pointing to their right. “Not far, I don’t think.”

“Then I’m going to go do my thing,” Stiles says. He looks back at Derek. “You have to actually give me a few minutes to talk to them before you charge in, you know.”

Derek puts his hands up and shrugs slightly. “We’ll circle around. Five minutes. No more.”

“Can I get seven if there’s no screaming?” Stiles asks. 

“You only get three if there’s screaming.”

“Are you nuts? Come right away if there’s screaming!” Stiles says. 

“I thought if you made them scream, you’d want to enjoy it a little.” Derek has a small grin as he says it. “Right?”

Stiles pats one of the squirt bottles with his left hand and grins back. “Yeah, I guess that might be a little bit accurate. See you in three to five minutes.” With that, Stiles turns and starts tromping through the dark woods in the direction Scott pointed, shouting as he goes, “Hey! Superwolves! Time to come out and huff and puff!”

“Why should we?” a voice says. 

“Because I’m the only one who’s going to take the time to talk to you,” Stiles calls out, trying to keep any tremor out of his voice. “My friends aren’t that chatty.”

“Your friends, as you call them, may be smarter than we thought. Talking is somewhat... overrated.”

Stiles doesn’t turn in the direction of the voice. He just stands stock-still (hopefully looking like a badass) with one hand resting on his spray bottle and the other slightly out from his body, so he can reach back and grab the kitchen knife if he has to. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t think too much of talking,” he says. “Too human?”

“It wastes time.” One of them steps out in front of Stiles, fifteen feet away, the tips of his fingers bloody claws. “What are you?”

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles says, then slowly smiles, showing his teeth. Hey, he can be creepy if he wants to be. “Alpha human.”

“Human,” a different voice spits, and then a second werewolf appears. “Humans are not alphas. Yet you reek of wolf.”

“What can I say? My pack, they’re kind of pungent,” Stiles says, with an exaggerated shrug. “Besides, you’re one to talk. I can smell you from here and I don’t have super-senses.”

“You are human. You cannot be pack.” The third of the scouts appears, and she looks at the first two. “I was right to suggest we come here. They let a human claim to be pack.”

“No, you were _stupid_ to come here,” Stiles corrects her. “And hey, I’ve got three alphas fighting over who gets to have me, so back off on the ‘let’, will you?”

“I have heard of packs that enjoy a human pet,” the second one says. “I wouldn’t pick this one, even if I did want one.”

“Yeah, good call. I’d make a pretty lousy pet. Scratch up your sofa, piss on your rug, plus, I bite.”

Two of them—the last two to appear—growl at that, and the first one manages to look even more put out. 

“So, are we done marking our territory here?” Stiles asks. “‘Cause seriously, I’ve had like three or four pissing contests this week already, and it’s getting a little boring. I hate being bored, so let’s talk about why you should leave Beacon Hills and never come back.”

“We’ll leave after we’ve done what we came for,” the first one says, snarling. “After you and your ‘pack’ are dead.”

“No, you’ll leave now while you’ve still got all your parts, or parts of you will leave after my pack gets through with you,” Stiles says, sounding calmer than he feels. His heart pounds in his chest, and it’s a strange mix of fear and excitement. “Come on. The _human_ came to treat with you. How threatened do you think we actually feel?”

“Or they sent you because you’re expendable,” the third one says, a grotesque smile on her face. She starts to slowly walk in a circle, like she wants to see every side of Stiles. As she circles more closely, coming out of the deeper shadows, Stiles notices that she’s slightly disproportionate, her arms a little too long, the angles of her legs not quite right. The two male scouts have the same look to them, like they’re stuck slightly into a transformation to wolf and can’t make it all the way back to human-looking. Maybe it’s intentional, maybe it’s the result of whatever master race werebreeding program they have going on, but either way, it’s creepy as fuck.

“None of my pack wants to go with you,” Stiles says loudly. “And you’re not going to be successful if you try to kill us. We have three alphas... and a family of hunters on speed dial.”

“Hunters!” the second one says. “The worst sort of humans.”

“Can’t say we’re overly fond of ‘em, no,” Stiles agrees. “But hey, they wouldn’t be overly fond of you, and that’s human ingenuity right there for ya. We use what we’ve got available to us.” He rests his other hand on the handle of the knife in his belt. “So what’s it going to be? Can we come to an arrangement or does this get ugly?”

The third one stops her circling and springs towards Stiles without a word. Stiles pulls the knife out of his belt with his right hand, the squirt bottle with his left, and he sprays a stream of lavender-colored liquid in the she-wolf’s direction, catching her on the side of the face before she reaches him. She screeches and draws back, one arm slashing towards Stiles. Stiles brandishes the knife and the bottle in her direction, keeping the other two werewolves in his peripheral vision. 

“Yeah? You like that?” Stiles shouts at the she-wolf. “I mixed it up myself!”

All three of them snarl, advancing on Stiles, and the she-wolf starts to spring at him again. He jabs the knife in her direction as the same time he depresses the trigger on the squirt bottle, but this time, she dodges to the side, knocking the knife out of his hand as she does so. Stiles grabs the other spray bottle, the one with the mountain ash, from his belt, and he holds both bottles out at shoulder level, one aimed at the she-wolf and the other at the first wolf.

Stiles realizes suddenly that there’s a very good chance he’s about to die, and that maybe he should scream and get the rest of his pack here, but before he can do that, the first wolf barrels into Stiles. The wolf’s claws dig into Stiles’s shoulders as the two of them crash to the forest floor, Stiles pinned to the ground with the hand holding the spray bottle of mountain ash/wolfsbane blend up near his face. The wolf’s fangs are bared, and they’re bigger, and his mouth seems like it holds twice as many teeth, too many fangs than should fit in one mouth, all of them about to close around Stiles’s throat. 

The wolf pauses before he bites, chuckling to himself, and this gives Stiles a chance to move his own hand forward. He shoves the tip of the spray bottle directly into the wolf’s eye, feeling the slight give of the eyeball’s tissue, and he frantically squeezes the trigger over and over, sending streams of water laced with mountain ash and wolfsbane into the wolf’s eye. The wolf howls, his body spasming, and on the second howl, he releases Stiles, rolling onto his back and rubbing his hands frantically at his face. That only makes him howl louder, writhing on the ground, and if the rest of the pack doesn’t hear him, there’s something wrong with them.

Stiles manages to push himself up onto his knuckles and knees, the squirt bottles still in a tight grip in each fist. He’s about to rise when something heavy hits him in the back of the head, and he pitches forward into the leaves, which gradually fade away into red darkness. 

Scott’s the one who gets seasick, not Stiles, so it doesn’t make any sense, the rolling nausea that goes along with the strange rocking motion. Catalina. That’s where’s they’re sailing. It doesn’t smell like the ocean, though. It smells like blood, and Stiles opens one eye. Derek has reddish-brown smears on his face and in his hair, scowling as he looks ahead of him, and from the angle, Derek must be carrying Stiles.

Stiles tries to say something, but his mouth just flaps open and closed ineffectually, no sound coming out. He tries harder, forces air past his vocal cords, wanting to ask if he’s dead. He feels dead. This is surely what dead feels like. He manages, “Dead?”

“Two of them,” is Derek’s answer. “Peter let one-eye get away, to go back to the rest of his clan.”

“Me?” Stiles croaks, because that didn’t answer his question at all. Not them, _him_. Is _he_ dead?

“A concussion, probably severe,” Derek answers, still missing the exact point of Stiles’s question. “Not sure what else yet.”

Okay. Concussion doesn’t sound like dead, even if Stiles can’t quite remember what concussion actually means at the moment. Keeping his eye open suddenly seems like too much effort, sleeping sounds so much nicer, so he closes his eye again and mutters, “Cool.”

Derek snorts. “Not really.”

“Oh my.” A car door slams as Lydia starts to talk. “Look at all of you. What happened to Stiles?”

“A log. Again,” Scott’s voice says. “That guy likes—liked, I guess—logs.”

A log. He got hit by a log. That seems silly, because who gets hit by a log? Stiles, eyes still closed starts to laugh—no, he starts to _giggle_ , his legs dangling from where they’re flopped over Derek’s arm, his head lolling against Derek’s chest. Hit by a log. That’s freaking hilarious, right there.

“Don’t let him go to sleep,” Lydia lectures. “He’s probably concussed and he shouldn’t go to sleep. What about the rest of you?”

“None of the rest of us were hit by logs,” Peter says. 

“None of the rest of you took an eye out of one of them, either,” Derek says, sounding faintly proud. Stiles wonders if Derek took someone’s eye out, and whose eye it was. Stiles stuck something in someone’s eye, he’s pretty sure, but the details are fuzzy.

“Back to my house?” Scott asks. “So we can assess... everything?”

“Yes,” Derek agrees, and there’s a little movement of his chest as he must nod. Then Derek loads Stiles into the car. “You heard Lydia, stay awake.”

“No,” Stiles says. He doesn’t want to stay awake. He wants to sleep. Maybe if he asked Scott, Scott would lean the seat back for him.

“Stiles,” Derek says firmly. “You have to stay awake. Don’t make me ask Peter to talk to you,” he adds under his breath.

Stiles opens his eyes and tries to glare at Derek, but everything looks like it’s under water, so he glares in Derek’s general direction. “You have blood on you,” Stiles says.

“Yes. It’s not mine.”

“You should keep your blood in you,” Stiles says. He nods his head; it hurts. “That’s where it goes.”

“It’s those other wolves’ blood,” Scott says almost happily. “Like I said, that one? Doesn’t use logs anymore.”

“Good,” Stiles says, letting his eyes droop closed again. “‘Cause that’s... rude. So rude.”

“Since you seem so intent on dying, would you like the bite _now_?” Peter offers. Stiles tries to shake his head, but it hurts, so he stops and curls up towards the door. 

“Peter, do you have a death wish?” Derek asks, but he sounds almost amused.

“No, but Stiles might,” Peter counters. “Either it would kill him and he gets what he wants, or it turns him and he heals quickly, which is what you want. Sounds like a win, doesn’t it?”

“And if it turns him, you’ll probably be dead within a fortnight, so.” Derek pauses and starts the car. “Maybe it is a win, then.”

“My dad’s gonna be so pissed,” Stiles says suddenly, opening his eyes. 

“He thinks you’re at my house, remember?” Scott says. “You can call and ask to stay another night or two, he doesn’t have to know.”

“No,” Stiles tries to explain. “I lost the kitchen knife.”


	12. Game of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody likes Monopoly, just like nobody disputes who's the alpha.

Something feels... not right. It’s nagging at the back of Stiles’s (admittedly addled) mind, and as Derek turns down Scott’s street, it starts to crystallize. He didn’t hear Isaac, Boyd, or Jackson, not even once, as Derek carried him out of the woods. He didn’t hear Lydia talking to them. He didn’t hear anyone talking _about_ them. What if it’s Erica all over again? Maybe several times over again? And maybe once again, nobody’s bothering to let Stiles know who they lost.

“Derek?” Stiles begins, not sure what he wants to say, not sure if he wants to know.

“Stiles,” Derek answers. “We’ve established our names once again. That’s good. Though usually concussions don’t involve amnesia.”

Derek is being _too_ light and flippant; that’s never a good sign. “Who didn’t make it?” Stiles finally asks. “Who did we lose this time?”

“What are you talking about?” Scott pipes up from the back seat.

“Oh. Shit, no. We didn’t, Stiles,” Derek says apologetically. “They were, uh. Making the Taco Bell run.”

“No, I mean... was it Isaac or Boyd? Lydia would have been crying if it were Jackson,” Stiles continues to ramble like he can’t make his mouth stop. “Though maybe she didn’t know. Or I didn’t hear it.”

“No one, Stiles,” Derek says firmly. “Everyone’s alive.” There’s an unspoken ‘this time’ that hangs in the air at the end of Derek’s sentence.

“Everyone’s _for real_ alive?” Stiles asks, trying, possibly failing, to keep his tone neutral. “Not ‘we’ll get around to telling Stiles eventually’ alive?”

“Actually alive. All of us. Injured, yes, some of us, but everyone made it.” Derek parks the car and turns towards Stiles. “It wasn’t like last time.”

“Stiles wasn’t there last time,” Peter points out. “He has no basis for comparison, Derek.”

“Shut up, Peter.”

“And how long did it take for someone to bring him up to speed last time?” Peter continues, ignoring Derek. 

“Shut _up_ , Peter,” Derek repeats, gritting his teeth.

“There were... reasons for that,” Scott says weakly. “It’s not relevant now. Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” Peter asks. “Stiles seems to think it’s relevant.”

“And we all know you are just looking out for his best interests,” Derek says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“Stop it,” Stiles blurts. “Just stop it. She was dead for _five hours_ before anyone told me. It was a fair question. Now everybody just stop it. You’re making my head hurt.” He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the glass of the window. He wants to sleep. Fuck all of them, he’s sleeping.

“Let’s go inside,” Derek says abruptly, getting out of the car. “Can you walk unassisted?”

Stiles responds with a grunt and closes his eyes more tightly. Everyone should go into Scott’s house and leave him alone to sleep. He was in a fight. He stabbed someone in the eye with a squirt bottle. He needs sleep.

“You can’t sleep,” Derek insists, and then he opens the door right out from under Stiles, his hand catching Stiles’s head. “Remember, Lydia said you can’t sleep if you have a concussion.”

“Lydia’s not my alpha,” Stiles mumbles, trying to bat Derek away. “I’m tired.”

“And yet we all have to take care of the alpha,” Derek mutters. He reaches in, unfastens Stiles’s seatbelt, and unceremoniously carries him towards Scott’s front door. Stiles doesn’t put up a fuss, because he doesn’t want to be equally unceremoniously dropped on his ass, but also because it’s a lot more comfortable for Derek to carry him than it is to be riding in the car.

“Yes, I suppose we do,” Peter says, holding the door open for Derek to carry Stiles into the house. 

Derek carries Stiles straight up the stairs and into Scott’s bedroom, laying him down on Scott’s bed and then grabbing Scott’s desk chair and plonking down in it, next to the bed. Scott just calls after them, “We’ll bring the Taco Bell when they get here!”

“I don’t want Taco Bell,” Stiles says. “I want sleep. Just tell Lydia you kept me awake.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Derek says, shaking his head. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re not bored.”

“Fine,” Stiles grumbles. “Are you planning on shouting at me from that chair all night?”

“I wasn’t planning on shouting, no,” Derek says. “But we do need to check the rest of your injuries at some point.”

“The rest of—oh.” Stiles apparently has other injuries. Now that he’s on a bed, not on the ground, in a car, or in someone’s arms, he can tell that a lot more parts of his body than just his head hurt. His t-shirt is shredded and blood-stained at both the shoulders. “That’s two shirts this week,” he sighs.

“No one ever warns you about the increased clothing budget,” Derek says solemnly. “Might as well just rip it the rest of the way, though.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a fashion statement or a werewolf pickup line or... or I don’t know what,” Stiles says. “My head really hurts.”

“Statement of fact, mostly.” Derek grins as there’s the noise of additional people entering the house. 

“Is that them?”

“And the Taco Bell.”

“Okay, so here’s what I need,” Stiles says. He pushes himself up to sitting, then thinks better of it, and lies back down again. “I need every member of this pack to come in here so I can see that they’re actually alive and have all their arms and legs and stuff like that.”

“You heard him,” Derek says, turning towards the bedroom door, and there’s the sound of five teenagers and Peter approaching within seconds.

“I meant one at a time,” Stiles groans, as _everyone_ (plus several sacks of Taco Bell) try to cram themselves through the door at the same time. The largest Taco Bell bag makes it into the room first, followed shortly by Boyd’s arm, then the rest of Boyd.

“It’s quicker this way?” Derek offers.

“It’s something this way,” Stiles says, sighing. Boyd is followed by Isaac, then Scott, then Lydia and Jackson together, then Peter, who is holding another sack of Taco Bell at arm’s length as if the bag had offended him. “Alright. Everybody’s alive. That’s good. Everybody have four limbs and a head a piece?”

“Actually,” Scott says, setting down his bag of Taco Bell and starting to pull out food, “most of us have—”

“Yeah, Stiles,” Boyd interrupts, and Stiles mouths ‘thank you’. “We’re all fine.”

A wave of Taco Bell smell washes over Stiles. “Okay, that’s great. Now everybody needs to take their food out of here before I puke all over it.”

“That’d really only be fair of us,” Derek acknowledges, but he gestures impatiently at the rest of them. Lydia leaves the room first, pulling Jackson behind her, and Boyd walks after them, still holding the large bag of Taco Bell. Derek shakes his head. “That’s a very large bag Boyd has.” Then he frowns. “Out, Peter.”

Peter, who apparently is lurking in the corner of Scott’s bedroom, sighs. “Fine. I’ll just have to trust you two to behave yourselves,” he says, before he flounces out of the room.

“That was a flounce,” Stiles says. “He flounced.”

Scott has to repack all of his Taco Bell, and he holds up the last two tacos or whatever. “Sure you don’t want me to leave these, dude?” he asks Stiles. 

Stiles makes a sort of hiccup-gag combo sound and waves the tacos away. “I think he’s sure, Scott,” Derek says flatly. 

“Let me know if you change your mind!” Scott deposits the tacos in his bag and heads out of the room, still seemingly quite cheerful about everything. As he passes Isaac, Isaac puts his hand on Scott’s shoulder for a second, then Scott exits and Isaac approaches the bed.

“Do you two need anything?” Isaac asks. “Bandages or washcloths, anything like that?”

“Once he’s a little more steady on his feet, he probably should shower off,” Derek answers without really answering the question. “Just have to keep him awake for now.” He grins suddenly. “You could see if Scott has any good board games.” 

“Oh please God no,” Stiles mutters from the bed. “No, please. Just let me pass out.”

“I like Risk,” Derek protests. “Or Stratego.”

“Yeah, I just bet you do,” Stiles says. Isaac takes another tentative step towards the bed, giving Derek a questioning look. Derek nods in Stiles’s direction acquiescently. Isaac sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Here,” Isaac says. “I can help.” He rests his hand on Stiles’s arm and half-closes his eyes, and the pain in Stiles’s head and shoulders recedes slightly. Stiles relaxes against the pillow. “Better?” Isaac asks.

“Yeah. That’s better. Thanks, Isaac,” Stiles says. Isaac smiles slightly and shrugs his shoulders, then turns and walks out of the room. “That’s a cool trick.”

Derek nods. “I meant it. You’ll have to shower later.” He stands up and closes Scott’s door, then comes back, lying down beside Stiles on the bed. 

“Shower after a nap,” Stiles says. He starts to lean his head against Derek’s shoulder, but then his own shoulder hits Derek’s arm, and that kind of hurts, so he lets his head drop back onto the pillow. “Did Lydia say how long before I was allowed to sleep?”

“I think overnight. We’ll ask her in an hour or two.” Derek shifts his weight. “One-eye went away ranting about you. You made quite an impression.”

“Am I remembering correctly the part where I jabbed him in the eye with a squirt bottle?” Stiles asks. “And then squirted?”

“Yes.” Derek nods. “Then, of course, one-eye tried to rub it out of his eye...with his wolfsbane-laced fingers. Sadly, that eye didn’t make it. I was going to try to take out the other one for you, but...”

“That’s... awesomely disgusting, Derek,” Stiles says. “Thank you.” The hell with the claw-marks on his shoulder; Stiles tips his head to the side to rest it on Derek.

“You’re welcome. Peter and Scott convinced me not to, though. So one-eye could go report back, since there wasn’t anyone else to report back at that point.” 

“Are they going to descend on the house any minute now and kill us in our sleep?” Stiles asks. “Well, kill _them_ in their sleep. I’m not allowed to sleep.”

“They’re probably a bit more cautious than that now,” Derek says. “I think Peter might have slipped a phone in his pocket before he let him leave.”

“Old wolf, new tricks,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. “Good job with that creepering, Peter. You keep on creepin’ on.”

“You would definitely kill him. Maybe within the week, actually,” Derek muses, sounding both pleased and proud about that thought. “Stiles?”

“Hmm?”

“You do realize what you did earlier?” Derek asks, but it’s clear that he thinks Stiles might not. 

“Stabbed a guy in the eyeball,” Stiles murmurs, turning his face against Derek’s shoulder. “It’s okay. He was bad.”

“Don’t go to sleep. Before that, I mean.” Derek’s hand pets over Stiles’s head repeatedly. “Before it got violent.”

“Mmhmm, won’t sleep. Not sleepy at all,” Stiles agrees. “Uh. Pissed them off?”

“Alpha human? My pack? Ring any bells, Stiles?”

A few. It rings a few. “Uh. Maybe?”

Derek chuckles. “You were pretty adamant. And yes, we all heard that.”

“It was talk. It was just talk, you know? Had to give you guys time to circle around and all that,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s arm. “It’s talk. You know I talk. I talk and talk and talk.”

“It may have been talk, but it was more or less true,” Derek admits.

“Nah. Scott, maybe. I’ve been getting Scott to do stuff he didn’t want to do for like the last ten or eleven years.”

“No one disputed it,” Derek argues. “Not even Peter. Well, he made a few faces, but then again, that’s Peter.”

“Yeah, Peter’s... that way that Peter is. A weird way. Peter is weird,” Stiles says. He nuzzles his face against Derek’s arm. “You know what’s weird? This is weird. You and me, this thing here. This is so... weird.” 

“Are you freaking out on me _now_?” Derek asks, amused.

“You used to throw me into walls,” Stiles says sleepily. “Like, what was that, even? Is that a werewolf thing? Why do all the werewolves always want to throw me into walls? Those guys today? If there had been walls? Totally would have thrown me into them.”

“I could still throw you against a wall periodically if you miss that.” Derek turns onto his side, one arm carefully resting against Stiles. “If you make a joke about mating rituals, though, I’m making you sit up to play Risk. Or Monopoly.”

“I hate Monopoly.”

“Everybody hates Monopoly. Though you know what’s worse?”

“Am I going to regret asking you what?”

“Nah. Game of Life. That’s worse than Monopoly. Stupid plastic cars with the plastic people.”

“Little stupid pink and blue plastic peg people,” Stiles agrees. “Life. Who makes a game out of life? It’s bad enough we have to _do_ life, every single day. Life.”

“Yeah, I wish you could sleep too,” Derek says, still petting Stiles’s head. “Is that the end of the freakout?”

“Well... I mean, I’m seventeen. Is there going to be sex?”

“Not tonight. You’re concussed. Also injured.” Derek’s head moves slightly, like he’s going to nuzzle at Stiles’s wounds, but he draws back almost as quickly.

“In general, though?”

“Yes, Stiles.”

“Then I’m good,” Stiles says. “How about you? You need to have a freakout?”

“I did. It was a theoretical freakout. There wasn’t anything actually happening at that point.”

“But to be clear, you’re good on the sex thing, right?” 

Derek laughs. “Yes, I’m good on the sex thing.” His hand stills momentarily. “If I let you sleep, you have to wake up every fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of sleep, fifteen awake, off and on.”

Stiles moves his head to get Derek to continue petting him. “Sounds good. Don’t let me sleep too long and die, okay? Lydia would be _so_ pissed at you.”

“Yeah, we’re not going to tell Lydia about this deal,” Derek agrees, his hand moving again. “Shower in another hour.”

“Are you planning on helping, ‘cause that sounds like a lot of standing,” Stiles says. “Like a hundred percent more standing than I can do right now.”

Stiles can practically hear the grin in Derek’s voice. “Wouldn’t miss it.”


	13. Scottblocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The licking of the wounds is an important post-battle ritual.

“You said ‘shower’,” Stiles says, standing half-undressed by the rapidly filling bathtub. Or more accurately, leaning against a wall, clutching a towel bar by the bathtub. “I know I heard ‘shower’ in there somewhere.”

“Do you really want to stand up for that long?” Derek asks. 

“No, but... c’mon, a bath? Are you putting bubbles in there next? Do I get a duckie?”

Derek’s lips twitch. “I can send Isaac out to buy some at the Walgreens. It’s twenty-four hours.”

“Bet there’s still some wolfsbane in my squirt bottle,” Stiles grumbles. “I can go for the aromatherapy bath instead.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s bad manners to spray wolfsbane at...well, at anyone in somewolf’s house.”

“Nah, it’s Scott. Manners don’t count,” Stiles says. “We’re past that point.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derek says dryly, turning off the water. “There. If it’s too cold, you can add more hot water.”

“Crazytalk. That’s like saying I could add more cold water if it’s too hot.”

“But you can’t do _that_ ,” Derek says, sounding absolutely appalled. “Need help?”

“So the sex _is_ happening, then?” Stiles asks.

Derek laughs. “I have to remember how persistent you are.”

“Hey, if you leave me all alone in here, I might doze off in the tub and drown.”

“There’s a wide difference between leaving you alone and sex, you know.” Derek sits down against the wall next to the tub. “It could be worse, you know. I could get some of the rest of the pack to come help you.”

“Just don’t ask for volunteers,” Stiles says. He fumbles with the front of his jeans, but his hands still aren’t quite up to speed. “Uh, this is still somewhere in that wide difference, right? ‘Cause I think I need some help.”

“No volunteers,” Derek agrees, standing back up and helping Stiles with his jeans. “Though I’m fairly certain Jackson would _never_ volunteer.”

Stiles steps out of his jeans and gives them an awkward kick to the side. “Jackson’s just not a volunteering kind of guy.” He looks down at his boxers-clad self and then up at Derek. “Avert your eyes.”

Derek snorts. “Really, Stiles?”

“Hey, this isn’t exactly the best set of circumstances to make a good first impression!” Derek starts to laugh, but does look away. Stiles kicks off his boxers and then takes two wobbly steps to the tub, managing to sit down in the warm water without falling or drowning himself. “Should have done this in the kitchen sink and used the sprayer,” Stiles says to himself. 

“Harder to conceal that one from Scott’s mom, I suspect.”

“Could’ve made Peter do the clean-up after,” Stiles suggests. The warm water feels pretty great, though, so he leans back in the tub and closes his eyes. “This doesn’t suck, though.”

“Good.” There’s the sound of Derek moving around for a moment. “Here, after you soak for a few minutes.” He sets something on the side of the tub.

Stiles cracks one eyelid and looks at the bottle of soap. “Yeah, that part’s going to suck big time,” he sighs. He slides a little farther down into the tub, propping his feet on the edge of the tub so he can slowly ease his mangled-up shoulders under the water. _That_ part sucks, too, but nasty werewolf claws carrying who knows what kind of nastiness, plus the whole wolfsbane thing, so a good soaking is probably in order. Even if it _totally_ sucks and hurts like hot pokers being jabbed into his shoulders. Hey, at least he’s not in danger of falling asleep now.

“The aftermath usually does,” Derek agrees. “The wolfsbane doesn’t affect you the same way, but it’s still a contaminant.”

Stiles manages some kind of noise of agreement and a nod of his head, then he turns all his concentration to his feet, which, unlike the rest of him, don’t hurt at all. They’re a little cold, sure, but they don’t hurt, and on further inspection, they even appear to be a normal color, no cuts or bruises or claw punctures. 

“Hey, look,” Stiles says, wiggling one foot. “Ten percent of me is completely undamaged!”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, a little more than ten percent. Maybe you need some body armor or something. Can you steal some from the Sheriff’s office?”

“No, it’s just ten percent. Everything hurts but my feet. Everything’s a weird color except my feet. And yeah, I think they’d notice if the Kevlar went missing,” Stiles says. “That shit’s expensive.”

“Hmm.” Derek frowns. “How expensive?”

“The vests are like five, six hundred plus.”

“Huh.” Derek shrugs. “Soap now?”

“No use putting it off, I guess,” Stiles says. He sighs and uses his feet to push himself back up out of the water. “You’ll probably have to stop averting your eyes and help me with this.”

“Brutus is an honorable man.”

“Literary allusions now, Derek? Seriously? I have _wounds_.”

“Which are going to be clean very shortly,” Derek replies, picking up the soap and the washcloth. “I don’t think they’re deep enough to need stitches. You’d need a hell of a cover story if they did.”

“Nothing like trying to explain why I have a set of claw marks wrapping around each shoulder,” Stiles says. He grits his teeth as Derek gets the washcloth soapy and proceeds to practically scour each gash. “Yeah, Doc. They’re from my, uh. Boyfriend. Wolf-friend. Boywolf?”

“That sounds like a bad Friday night television show from 1999. No, that’d be ‘Boy Meets Wolf’.”

“Yeah, I was like five or something in 1999.”

“Little Boy Meets Wolf, then,” Derek says, grinning as he moves on to attack the other side. 

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to refocus on his feet. He’s less successful this time. “Are you using brillo? Brillo and sulfuric acid?”

“Yes on the acid, no on the brillo.” Derek shrugs. “I can’t help you with them unless they’re really clean.”

“Are you already helping me with—ohhh. You mean like last time. When you accidentally thought I was a baby werewolf.”

“I was mostly asleep,” Derek says defensively.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Stiles says. “So, is that a thing? A licking thing? That’s a thing you do?”

“I don’t just go around licking people at random, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Any other people?”

Derek pauses for a moment. “If I had to, I would Isaac or Boyd. But not for the same reasons.”

“Because they’re your betas,” Stiles says. “Ow. That one’s clean!”

“Right. And yes. Two more.”

Stiles grinds his teeth together while Derek cleans out the last two claw-gouges on Stiles’s shoulder. Finally, Derek sets the washcloth down and Stiles slumps against the tub with a loud sigh. “Am I de-wolfbaned?”

Derek leans forward, his nose just a few inches from Stiles’s shoulder, and he sniffs. “Yes.” He follows that up with a lick up the shallowest of the gashes. Stiles shivers, then he shivers again because the bathwater is getting cold.

“Can we relocate?” Stiles asks. 

Derek pulls back and then nods, grabbing a towel before offering Stiles a hand. “Cold?”

“Yeah. Also, you know. If you don’t want a sex thing to happen, maybe I should put some clothes on, is all I’m saying.”

“Never said anything about things,” Derek says evenly, hauling Stiles out of the tub and wrapping the towel around him before letting the water out. 

“So relocation is _still_ a good plan.”

“Fair enough,” Derek concedes, opening the bathroom door and looking out almost suspiciously. “The ones that aren’t asleep are... cooking. Again.”

“Don’t talk about food. I might actually be feeling a little hungry, but I’m not sure I want to chance it,” Stiles says. 

Derek nods, turning off the light in the bathroom and helping Stiles back over to the bed. Once Stiles is on the bed, Derek resumes licking, starting with Stiles’s right shoulder. Like last time, it simultaneously stings and feels awesome, and Stiles only barely resists the urge to put his hand on the back of Derek’s head. Derek moves his tongue slowly, around the edges of the same shallowest one, then drags his tongue up the one beside it, still slow and deliberate.

“Oh holy—why does that feel so awesome?” Stiles kind of exhales the words, and then, screw it, does put his hand on the back of Derek’s head. Derek hums and shrugs, then licks him again, just slower. Stiles moves his fingers through Derek’s hair; it’s softer than he would have thought. “Is this really going to help or is it just a werewolf kink thing? ‘Cause either way, I’m good.”

Derek manages to look almost insulted. “Did it not help before?”

“You big baby,” Stiles says. “Did that hurt your feelings? Hey! Don’t stop!”

Derek manages to find an uninjured portion of Stiles’s neck and bites at it playfully before going back to the next gash in Stiles’s shoulder. He slides his tongue down the cut this time, faster than before, and Stiles is glad that most of his body is wrapped up in the towel Derek got him, because this is possibly hotter than it’s got any right to be. Derek raises his head up from Stiles’s right shoulder, eyeing the left one. “Well, they _look_ better, even if they don’t feel better.”

“Oh, they feel better, they definitely feel better, so don’t stop,” Stiles says. 

“Are you asking or begging?” Derek says, grinning widely.

“Begging, me? Maybe if my _life_ were in danger or something. Maybe not even then.”

“That sounds like a challenge, actually.” Derek skims his tongue across the very top of the deepest gash on Stiles’s left shoulder.

“I’m a wounded hero!” Stiles protests, raising his left shoulder off the bed. “I stabbed a dude in the eye!”

“Now you accept the credit, when it’s going to get you somewhere.” Derek laughs and runs his tongue around the bottom of the cut. “Very opportunistic.”

“Yeah, yeah. What I lack in werewolf powers, I make up for in cunning and wiles.” Stiles pulls on Derek’s hair, tugging him closer. “So don’t stop.”

Derek turns his head instead, touching the tip of his tongue to the corner of Stiles’s mouth. Stiles tilts his head towards Derek’s, and Derek puts his mouth over Stiles’s. He doesn’t even pretend to be patient, just pushes his tongue into Stiles’s mouth, holding his body just above Stiles. Stiles tightens his hand in Derek’s hair, then releases it, moving his hand to the back of Derek’s neck before tightening his grip again, pulling down with as much strength as he can muster with one messed-up arm. 

Derek breaks off with a muted sound that actually resembles a whine. “Are you always going to be this bossy when you’re naked in bed with me?” he asks.

“I’m not naked,” Stiles insists. “I’m wearing a towel. And... possibly. Probably.”

“Close enough. I could get rid of that towel,” Derek says, finally running his tongue up Stiles’s shoulder again as he finishes speaking. 

“Yeah? You and what pack?” Stiles ask, squeezing the back of Derek’s neck.

Derek moves to the final gash, his hand resting on the edge of Stiles’s towel, then looks at Stiles. “I could hold you down and rip that towel off and you wouldn’t be able to stop me. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Derek grins slowly. “Keep you between me and the bed, go over those cuts again and again until you really were begging.”

Stiles has the self-control to not say ‘oh please, please do’, but not enough self-control to keep from making an embarrassing high-pitched noise before he says, “You lick your pups with that mouth?”

The grin on Derek’s face grows wider. “Absolutely not.” The hand that was just resting on the edge of the towel starts to move, slowly removing it. 

“Hey guys!” Scott’s voice suddenly calls, followed by three rapid knocks on the door. “Are you okay in there? Lydia said to remember not to go sleep, but I told her that probably wasn’t a concern, ‘cause your hearts are just _pounding_. I heard a noise, though, so I thought I’d come check.”

Derek collapses on top of Stiles with a groan, and Stiles calls out, “Fine! Thanks, buddy, we’re great!” 

“Oh, okay! You guys need anything?”

“For you to leave!”

“Leave? Okay,” Scott says uncertainly. 

“That means you walk away from the door and go back to whatever it is you’re cooking,” Derek calls in the direction of the door. 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles whispers. “In the morning, he’ll be the first to die.”


	14. Stink Like Humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles straddles the fine line between posturing and looking like a total badass.

“You heard him,” Derek says to Scott and Isaac. “Bagels. Go over to Tesla’s.” He hands Isaac some money as Scott makes a face. 

“But Tesla’s is on the other side of Clausonville!” Scott protests.

Derek raises an eyebrow and glances at Stiles. “Tesla’s got the best bagels,” Stiles says. “There’s no point in even bothering with bagels if you aren’t going to Tesla’s.” Derek looks back at Scott, eyebrow still raised. 

“Right,” Scott concedes, following Isaac out the door. “Back in awhile.”

“I should get concussed more often,” Stiles says to Derek. “Suddenly everybody wants to do what I want them to do. Except let me sleep, apparently,” he adds, making a face in Lydia’s direction. 

Lydia pulls out a penlight and brandishes it. “Do you want me to check your reactivity again, Stiles?”

“Will I get to have a nap if I react correctly?” Stiles asks.

“No, you should eat now. Did you even eat dinner last night?”

“No, because of how I didn’t want to puke all over Scott’s bed. Or Derek.”

“ _Before_ you were injured, Stiles.” Lydia looks unimpressed with Stiles’s answer. 

“Yeah, of course I... Oh. No, actually,” Stiles says. “Wait, yeah, I had some fries. At some point.”

“He definitely needs to eat before he sleeps,” Lydia says to Derek, who nods. 

“That’s what Tesla’s is for.” 

“After breakfast, you need to go to the hospital,” Lydia says. 

“I told you, Lydia. One of the _six_ of us here would be able to smell it if he was bleeding internally.” Derek sighs impatiently. “Isaac did his thing. You know he would have let us know.”

“I don’t care. He’s going in later.” Lydia shrugs, clearly indicating that’s the final word. Stiles keeps his eyes open while Lydia shines the light in one and then the other. 

“Do my eyes look normal? Can I sleep until the bagels are here?” Stiles asks. “Please, Lydia? _Pleeeease_?” 

Lydia sighs heavily. “Fine.”

“Really?” Derek asks. “You’ll beg _Lydia_?”

“Dude, she’s _Lydia_ ,” Stiles whispers. “That’s like speaking French to a French person. Begging her is just, like, _polite_.”

Derek frowns. “You might be right,” he concedes. 

“When you’re dealing with Lydia, supplication is the better part of valor,” Stiles says. “Just trust me on that one.”

“You have known her considerably longer,” Derek acknowledges. “But the important thing is she said you could sleep. For the first time _all night_.” Lydia looks suspiciously at Derek but doesn’t comment. 

“Because I haven’t even tried to fall asleep,” Stiles says, a little louder. “Because Lydia said I couldn’t!”

Lydia smiles sharply and points out of the kitchen. “Good, I’ll get plates and make sure we have drinks. Jackson!”

“Huh? What?” Jackson’s head snaps up from where he’s obviously dozed off on the sofa. 

“You may need to go pick up orange juice. I’m almost certain Ms. McCall needs more coffee to make up for what we’ve drunk.”

“Yeah, you should go do that,” Stiles says. “While I nap. Derek, too, since he didn’t sleep either.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” Derek agrees, steering Stiles back towards Scott’s bedroom. “Just wake us up when the bagels are here.”

“Good. We won’t have to be here to hear it,” Jackson mutters as Stiles and Derek start up the stairs. 

“I heard that,” Derek says over his shoulder.

“Meant for you to,” Jackson calls back.

“Go to the store!”

“Jackson!” Lydia snaps. “We’re leaving now!”

Jackson and Lydia leave, the door slamming behind them, and Derek pilots Stiles back into Scott’s bedroom and onto the bed. Derek closes the door and then comes back to the bed, starting to pull off Stiles’s shirt. 

“I like this plan,” Stiles says as his shirt goes over his head. “Have I mentioned that I’m not even tired?”

Derek looks amused. “Of course you’re not,” he answers, lying down on the bed himself. “We should try to sleep. Who knows what’s going to happen next, right?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Stiles insists, but the yawning probably undercuts the impact of that statement. 

“Then we’re horribly weak,” Derek counters, closing his own eyes and tugging on Stiles’s arm. Stiles rolls onto his side and curls up against Derek, with his head on Derek’s chest.

“You’re weak,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s chest. “I’m just being supportive.”

Derek snorts. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says, his hand petting Stiles’s head. Stiles closes his eyes and lets his body become dead weight against Derek’s. He’s still trying to think of a good comeback when he falls asleep.

“The bagels are here!” Lydia chirps, knocking on Scott’s door. “Stiles? Derek? Bagels!”

“If I put the bagel in his eye, I can’t eat it,” Stiles says, burying his face against Derek. 

“We’ll avoid the eyes this time, then,” Derek says quietly. “Be out in a minute!” he calls to Lydia.

“Okay!” Lydia responds, then walks away rather loudly. 

“That was fast,” Stiles says. He starts to sit up, decides that’s a dumbass plan, and throws his leg over Derek’s instead. “Didn’t they just leave?”

“You fell asleep. Despite your assertions that you weren’t sleepy.”

“I wasn’t sleepy,” Stiles argues. “I think it’s just something about being around you. Makes me pass out.”

“Oh, I have that effect on people.” Derek pauses. “No. I don’t. Bagels now.” He sits up and pulls Stiles with him. 

“You know, now that we’re both awake, we could always go eat bagels a little _later_ ,” Stiles suggests. “Since I’m all less-concussed now and everything.”

“You do realize that there are five werewolves out there who can hear everything, right?” Derek asks. “Also, Lydia, which.”

“Fine. Bagels,” Stiles sighs. “You and your logic.”

“Hardship.” Derek stands, helping Stiles up, and steers them back down to the kitchen, where Lydia is supervising Jackson setting the table.

“They’re bagels, Lydia,” Jackson says. “Why does it matter where the fork goes? Nobody uses a fork for bagels.”

“Someone might decide to poach an egg,” Lydia responds. 

“Is poached the one with vegetables in it?” Scott asks.

“Never mind. Sit down. We’ll eat.”

As they all sit down, Scott pulls out a dagger and sets it on the table, next to the cream cheese. “So they left us that. Oh, and a note!” He puts a piece of paper next to the dagger, almost getting the paper in the cream cheese.

“Where’d you find it?” Stiles asks. He grabs the cream cheese away from the paper and starts liberally applying it to his everything bagel. 

“It was stuck in the door!” Scott sighs. “My mom’s going to be pissed. Unless I get some of that wood filler stuff, maybe.”

Jackson picks up the dagger and looks at it critically, turning it over in his hand, touching the tip of his finger to the point. “What is this made from? I don’t even think it’s steel.”

“It smells like iron,” Derek says, frowning and reaching for the note. 

Scott makes a face. “Like a skillet?”

“Yes, Scott, exactly like a skillet,” Stiles says. “They were going to use a skillet, but they couldn’t figure out how to hang it on your door.”

“They want to meet with us,” Derek announces, setting the note back down. “Our ‘representatives’. They’re sending someone authorized to speak for their entire clan, along with three others. So we’ll meet them with four of us.”

“So, me and who?” Stiles asks. “‘Cause I’m going. I got us into this mess.”

“Can you stand up without help yet?” Derek replies.

“I don’t know,” Stiles counters. “Can you bite me?”

Peter, who has been sleeping upright in an armchair throughout the entire conversation, suddenly raises his hand. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Yes.”

“You want me to chuck him in the backyard?” Boyd offers.

“Not necessary,” Derek says to Boyd, then turns to glare at Peter. “Stop, Peter.”

“He asked,” Peter answers, shrugging. 

“He didn’t ask you.”

“It sounded like a general request,” Peter says. “But fine, have it your way. Lydia, be a dear and bring me a poppyseed bagel.”

“I still have a taser, Peter,” Lydia sing-songs. Peter sinks back down in his chair with a sigh and a half-hearted roll of his eyes. 

“Who else is going?” Stiles asks Derek. “Me, you, and who?”

Derek rolls his own eyes, then shakes his head. “You’re going to insist, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have to insist. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”

“ _They_ actually insisted,” Derek concedes, handing Stiles the note. 

Stiles smooths out the note and reads, “‘Send the human who calls himself alpha, the one who killed our scouts, and two others’.” He looks up at Derek. “Who killed the two scouts?”

“Derek did,” Scott answers around a mouthful of bagel. “First he took out the log-lover, then the she-wolf.” 

“By himself?” Stiles asks. “Derek, by yourself?”

Derek sets his bagel down and chews for a moment before answering. “Yes.”

“He ripped out log boy’s throat with one hand, then he went full alpha and tore the she-wolf in half,” Boyd says, calmly spreading cream cheese on a second bagel. “Never seen him go full alpha before. It’s impressive.” Boyd doesn’t sound all that impressed, but then, Boyd never does. 

“Sorry I missed it,” Stiles says.

“I’m not,” Derek mutters. 

“Does it say what time?” Isaac asks. “What time do they want to meet with you?”

“Note says noon,” Stiles answers, handing the note to Isaac. 

“Two hours,” Derek notes, looking at the clock, then at Scott. “Won’t your mother be here soon?”

“Oh shit!” Scott yelps. “She’ll be here in fifteen minutes!”

“I don’t think I bled on too much stuff, but the tub’s kind of a mess,” Stiles says. “Lydia, you’re good at this stuff. How do we fix it?”

“Everyone has to stop eating for now. Jackson, go scrub the tub.” She pauses and looks at Jackson. 

“What?” Jackson asks. “Why me? Stiles should do it.”

“Stiles is concussed and he has another job to do. Go scrub the tub.”

Jackson shoots Stiles a dirty look, but he goes upstairs, presumably to scrub the tub. 

“Scott, since you know your own appliances, you need to collect all the dirty towels and sheets and things and put them in to wash. Peter, vacuum. Isaac, remake Scott’s bed and then come load the dishwasher. Boyd, see if you can find any wood filler and paint in the garage.” She pauses again and looks around expectantly, clearly waiting for all of them to move. Scott gets up without argument, Isaac standing up immediately after, and then Boyd. Peter heaves an unnecessarily loud sigh before he goes to look for the vacuum. 

“What do I do?” Stiles asks. “And Derek doesn’t have a job, either.”

“Your job is to package up the bagels. Derek’s job is.” Lydia looks around. “Trash. To take the trash out. Push it out to the curb for her, even.”

Stiles nods and starts packing up bagels and putting lids on cream cheese. He moves slowly, and by the time he has the various cream cheeses in the fridge, everyone else is done with the assigned chores and has reassembled in the living room. 

“Now it’s time to quickly drive away,” Lydia announces. 

“Scott, you and Isaac take the Jeep,” Derek says. 

“Where are we go—no, okay, my house,” Stiles says, interrupting himself. “My dad’ll be at work. Anybody not going to meet with the hunting clan can stay at my place.” He makes a face and then adds, “Except for Peter.”

“I thought I’d come along and see how one-eye is faring this morning,” Peter says. “He might be thinking glass eye, but I strongly recommend he go with the patch. More options.”

“Well, that’s three,” Derek says with a sigh, ignoring the rest of Peter’s comments as they all head out the door.

“If the rest of the alphas are going,” Scott says, “I should go too. That’s four.”

Stiles and the Alphas could be an opening act for Lydia and the Betas, come to think of it. Maybe Stiles shouldn’t try to name non-existent musical groups while concussed, though. He follows Derek down to his car, where Boyd climbs into the back seat, then Stiles and Derek in the front. Peter tries to get into Jackson’s car, but Lydia pats her purse, probably a taser reference, so Peter sulkily gets into the back of the Jeep instead.

“He’d better not hurt my Jeep,” Stiles says. “I don’t want his claws on my seats.”

“You could take out _his_ eye?” Derek suggests. 

“Oh, shoot, did you get my squirt bottles?”

“They’re in the back.”

“One of them’s a little crushed,” Boyd says. “Sorry.”

“Well, if I bring two, they’ll feel threatened. One’s just a... statement or something,” Stiles says. “Perfectly acceptable, since everybody else at this meeting but me has claws and fangs and super-strength.”

“Remember what you were saying about word getting around?” Derek asks.

“Town full of alphas, somebody’s bound to notice,” Stiles says.

Stiles can hear Boyd snorting in the back seat. “He thinks you’re talking about you,” Boyd says.

“Word _will_ get around,” Derek says mildly. “Stiles Stilinski, wielder of wolfsbane.”

“Stiles Stilinski, dumbass human who hangs out with werewolves and gets his ass kicked on a semi-regular basis,” Stiles retorts. 

“You know, Stiles, I’m beginning to think you want your ass kicked on that semi-regular basis.” Derek is obviously trying not to grin. “Why could that be, do you think?”

“I’ve always been told that when you’re good at something, you should keep doing it,” Stiles offers. “Either that or I’m a masochist.”

Derek nods slowly. “No comment.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles squawks in protest. Boyd snickers. 

“It means—oh, look. Your house.” Derek parks and jumps out. “You can go concoct more poison.”

Stiles struggles ineffectually with the car door, but they’re parked with the passenger side at a slight uphill angle, and his stupid shoulders won’t cooperate and help him push the door open. Derek walks around the car without a word and opens it, clearly resisting the urge to do so with some kind of flourish.

“I could’ve opened it,” Stiles grumbles, getting out of the car. “Eventually. If I rested a little first, maybe used my legs.”

“We got out of there just in time!” Scott announces. “My mom called and she was asking if that was your Jeep she saw, Stiles.”

“And you told her that sure, we were just going over to my house for video games and pizza and other normal guy stuff,” Stiles prompts. “Right? Nothing about squirt bottles or hunting clans.”

“I knew I should I have said pizza instead of raw steak!” Scott grins at Stiles.

“Dude, you are literally the best,” Stiles says, shaking his head and returning Scott’s grin. “Never doubted you for a second.”

“Now we just have to hope your dad doesn’t stop by in the middle of his shift,” Derek says.

“You’re jinxing us! Don’t say stuff like that,” Stiles says. “Seriously.”

Derek shrugs. “What’s the worst that happens? You tell him you had some friends over but you went to pick up the pizza.”

“Raw steak!” Scott inserts helpfully.

“Yeah, nothing could possibly go wrong,” Stiles sighs, as they all file into his house.

Two hours, one squirt bottle of wolfsbane (necessitating Derek staying out of the kitchen), and three threats of tasing directed at Peter later, and Stiles and the three alphas get back into Derek’s car to head to the rendezvous point. 

“I think you shouldn’t talk, Peter,” Derek says as he drives.

“I always think Peter shouldn’t talk,” Stiles says. 

Peter hmphs. “Stiles, I’m—”

“Starting now,” Derek says.

“I think it’s weird we’re meeting them at the lacrosse field,” Scott says.

“You mean the ‘large grass field where the human children play their games’?” Stiles asks. “I’m just assuming that _has_ to mean the lacrosse field.”

“We should have shown up ready to play,” Scott says, laughing. 

“Hey, I’m ready to sit on the sidelines, and that’s most of my lacrosse career,” Stiles says. 

Derek suddenly looks interested as they park. “Pads are cheaper than body armor.”

“Have you seen what these guys do to lacrosse pads?” Stiles asks. 

“Right. Kevlar.” Derek shrugs. “Oh, look. They’re here.”

“I’m thrilled. This is my thrilled voice,” Stiles says, in his not-at-all-thrilled voice.

The hunting clan delegation has arranged themselves at the far end of the lacrosse field, close to the woods. Three wolves, including one-eye, stand behind a fourth, a tall she-wolf holding a similar iron dagger to the one that left a dent in Scott’s door.

“Which of you is the human,” the she-wolf shouts across the field, “and which is the one who killed two of ours? All four of you stink like humans.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “I _bathed_!”

Derek looks amused. “I can’t imagine why I do.”

Peter sighs behind them. “As adorable as your little courting ritual is under better circumstances, maybe the two of you could _focus_ , please?”

“Why does Derek not know why he smells like Stiles?” Scott asks, sounding confused.

One-eye leans forward and appears to whisper something into the she-wolf’s ear, and she nods. “Give us the soft one, and we will consider this matter settled and leave you to your little town.”

“Wait, who’s the soft one?” Scott whispers. “Is that me?”

“Yeah, I think they mean _me_ ,” Stiles whispers back. 

“No,” Derek calls back. “You get none of us, and you leave with what’s left of your pack intact.” He looks at one-eye and grins. “Or mostly intact.”

She-wolf-boss doesn’t look impressed. She bares a mouth full of those same oversized, overly-crowded fangs as the wolves from last night, and snarls, “Then we _take_ the human and pick which piece of him you get to keep.”

“No!” Scott yells back, then looks surprised that he said anything.

Stiles rests his hand on his squirt bottle. “I’d suggest you leave ‘em my mouth,” he calls out. “Trust me, you do _not_ want that.”

“Leave his eye,” one-eye growls. “I’ll keep the other one.”

“You’re lucky you have any eyes at all,” Derek says, still grinning. “I wanted to put your other one in a jar. Don’t you think that’d look nice on the mantle?”

“Hey! If we collect one from each of them, we could string ‘em up with some popcorn and put it on the tree for Christmas!”

“Stiles!” Scott says. “What are you doing? Don’t make them madder!”

“Maybe we should let you have him,” Peter offers loudly. “I’ll set the timer on my watch for forty-five minutes. He’ll be back before the alarm goes off.”

She-wolf-boss and the other jerk-wolves exchange looks... except for one-eye, who exchanges half a look. “We... do not understand,” the she-wolf confesses. “Why would we return the human?”

“You wouldn’t. He’d disable you at the very least, and then he’d be back.” Derek smiles almost pleasantly. “Of course, he also might just cut each of you in half. That’d be so sad.”

“You’re bluffing,” a younger-looking wolf says. “He’s small and fuzzy and soft. Pups are more dangerous than this boy.” The other two-eyed male wolf nods, but one-eye looks a little on the uncomfortable side, and one of his clawed hands instinctively jerks towards his eye. 

“Maybe so,” Stiles agrees, shrugging. “You want me to come with you and we’ll test that theory?” 

“Yeah, why don’t you guys come over here and get him?” Derek invites them. “He’s willing to go. Scientific inquiry on your part?”

“Yeah,” Scott speaks up, nodding. “Yeah. Why else would we have a human alpha, huh?”

The hunting clan wolves gather in close and seem to confer with each other. Stiles, lacking super-hearing, has no clue what they’re saying, but whatever it is, one-eye doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, or possibly they’re talking about how not-thrilled one-eye is. Stiles keeps standing there with his hand on his squirt bottle and a big, toothy smile on his face. He glances over at Derek once and whispers, “Do I look like a badass like this?” Derek nods solemnly. “Awesome.”

“We have a change of terms,” the she-wolf-boss suddenly shouts.

“Let’s hear them!” Stiles shouts back.

“We will leave this small human town, and none of you will follow us when we go.”

Stiles’s grin widens. “Give me a minute to confer with my pack,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for a response before he turns his back on the hunting clan and addresses Derek, Peter, and Scott in a low voice. “Let’s pretend we’re talking about this and thinking very carefully.”

“Personally, I’m disappointed we can’t follow them,” Peter says. “They’re so charming and the backwards angle to the legs is attractive in a hyena sort of way.”

“Yes, there’s uh.” Scott pauses and starts talking louder. “So many disadvantages to letting them leave unharassed.”

“I was hoping to get me that other eye,” Stiles says. “Maybe we should ask for that before they go. Like a gift with purchase!”

“Your conference is taking over-long, human ‘alpha’,” the she-wolf shouts. The sneer is audible across the field, which Stiles finds impressive. “Our offer is mutually beneficial.”

Stiles turns back to face the hunting clan with an exaggerated look of disappointment on his face. “Well, I’ll tell ya, the terms could be better, but the big guy here says he doesn’t want to have to kill any more of your clan. One of them bled all over his shirt last time before she died, and that shit’s hard to get out. So... yeah, we accept your terms.”

“Very well,” the she-wolf says, “we will prepare for our departure by moonrise.”

“Uh-uh,” Stiles says. He slides his wolfsbane squirt bottle out of his belt, and like it’s a cue, he can see Scott on one side of him and Derek on the other bare their claws and fangs. “Terms start _now_.”

One-eye flinches dramatically, and the younger wolf takes a few awkward steps backward, even though they’re still half a lacrosse field away. Slowly, the hunting clan turns and disappears back into the woods. Scott and Derek finally revert back to human form when the last of the hunting clan is out of sight. 

“Did you guys see that?” Stiles asks, bouncing in place for a second before his shoulders and head remind him that, oh yeah, he’s _injured_. “That was _awesome_!”

“I really do want some pizza now!” Scott says, grinning at Stiles.

“Yeah, pizza would be sweet!” Stiles agrees. “Derek, you want pizza?”

“Let me guess,” Derek says. “You’re pretty sure everyone wants wings with their pizza?”

“Oh, hey, yeah! That’s really great of you to offer, Derek,” Stiles says. “Now somebody help me off this field, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out!”

Derek snorts, throwing Stiles’s arm over his shoulder. “Do you need to be carried?”

“Derek, c’mon, not in front of the other alphas!” Stiles says, leaning his weight against Derek as they start to walk off the field. “Oh, but I think I found a scratch you missed, so maybe you can take care of that for me later.”

“Oh, God,” Peter mutters, putting his hand over his face. 

Scott shakes his head. “Shut up, it’s nice!”

“Later, Stiles,” Derek agrees. “Right now, you should think about how you’re going to reenact that for the betas over pizza. We’ll let Jackson be one-eye, and Peter can play the she-wolf.”

Stiles laugh. “Deal.”


	15. Always Careful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Derek had known it would involve pack Christmas cards, he would have thought twice about the whole Alpha thing.

Stiles doesn’t get to eat pizza and wings, at least not immediately. What he does get to do is turn around and go the emergency room under strict orders from a furious Lydia. 

“Emergency room, Stiles! I didn’t make you go after breakfast because you had to meet with the hunting clan, but you are going _now_. Derek, take him to the emergency room.”

“But Lydia, I’m fine!” Stiles insists. “I’m a badass! Tell her I’m a badass,” he orders Scott and Derek.

“You were definitely a badass!” Scott agrees. 

“Badassery aside,” Lydia says, glaring sternly at Stiles. “You need to go now. Then you can have as much food and sleep as much as you want.” She smiles suddenly. “Or at least go to bed!”

Stiles points at Lydia. “That’s a dirty trick.”

“But it works, doesn’t it?” Lydia’s smile grows wider and she turns to Derek. “I know you’d rather not have to wake him up every fifteen minutes.”

Derek glares at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t argue. She knows things,” Stiles says, patting Derek’s chest. “It’s better not to argue. Or make eye contact, really.”

“Fine.” Derek sighs. “Maybe she’ll believe us about smelling it, after this.”

“You know that whole smelling people thing is really intrusive and weird and off-putting, right?” Stiles asks, as he, Derek, and Scott go right back out to Derek’s car.

“I can smell you more later,” Derek answers.

“Ohgodyes,” Stiles says.

Scott grins at the two of them a little dopily as he climbs in the backseat. “Hey, I could—no, wait, she’s at home. Otherwise we could go to the front of the line.”

“Think I’m allowed to nap while we wait?” Stiles asks, sliding down into the seat after he’s buckled in. “I think I should be allowed.”

“I don’t see Lydia in the car. I doubt she’ll be in the emergency room.” 

“And yet, somehow, I bet she’ll still know, and one of us will get a stern talking-to,” Stiles says, yawning. “Wake me up when we get there.”

“As long as _I_ don’t get the talking-to,” Scott says.

“Oh, we’ll definitely make sure you get the talking to,” Stiles answers, closing his eyes. “It’s all on you, buddy. All on you.”

Stiles considers the two hours spent in the emergency room a waste of perfectly good time that could be used for way more entertaining purposes, but at least it’s a success in that his brain isn’t bleeding and he makes it in and out of the hospital without ever having to take off his t-shirt. Explaining the various sets of claw marks isn’t high on Stiles’s list of things to do today.

“Scott, order pizza and wings,” Stiles says. “We’ll pick it up on the way home. Get those cinnamon stick things, too.” He turns and smiles broadly at Derek. “Derek’s paying, so live large.”

“You’re lucky you’re concussed, Stiles,” Derek says. “Clearly, you’re using me for my pizza-purchasing abilities.”

“Pizza, wings, and cinnamon stick thing purchasing abilities, thank you very much. Don’t be cheap. I could have died.”

“Right. How could I forget those details.”

“The guy at the pizza place says they have a special on garlic bread, too!” Scott says from the back seat. “Garlic bread and a few two-liters?”

“Yeah, get some garlic bread and drinks. Make sure you get something without sugar for Derek to drink,” Stiles instructs. “‘Cause he might accidentally enjoy himself if we give him sugar.”

“Just purchase the entire store,” Derek tells Scott. “And make sure to get extra icing for the cinnamon sticks, because Stiles needs even more sugar.”

“That is correct,” Stiles says. “And make my beverage caffeinated.”

“We’ll never sleep.” Derek shakes his head slightly. 

“I hadn’t planned to,” Stiles answers. 

“I’ll make sure everyone else leaves after we eat, then,” Scott says, clearly trying to be helpful. 

“And that is why you’re awesome,” Stiles adds.

“You can refrain from explaining why in detail,” Derek suggests.

After they pick up the pizzas (and wings, cinnamon sticks, assortment of drinks, and extra icing), and return to Stiles’s house to feed everyone and reenact the confrontation scene for the betas and Lydia, and Lydia threatens to tase Peter yet again for refusing to adequately portray the role of the she-wolf-boss, Scott shoves everyone but Stiles and Derek out the front door. Then Scott turns to Stiles and grins as he backs out the door. “Have fun! Call me tomorrow!”

“Good-bye, Scott,” Derek says in the tone of the long-suffering, closing and locking the door. 

“So, you want to go scour the internet for the next great crisis to hit Beacon Hills?” Stiles says, already starting to walk backwards towards the hall. 

“I’m pretty sure that can wait until tomorrow,” Derek replies, following Stiles. 

“Want to help me brew up some more wolfsbane for my squirt bottles, then?”

“The answer to that is always going to be no, Stiles.”

Stiles reaches behind himself to open his bedroom door, backing into the room. “Swap recipes?”

“Also forever a no, I think,” Derek says, starting to grin as he steps into the bedroom and then closes that door as well. 

“Then I’m totally out of ideas,” Stiles says, shaking his head sadly. “Whatever will we do to fill the time?”

“You said something about a scratch I _missed_?” Derek says, raising an eyebrow and stepping closer to Stiles.

The back of Stiles’s legs bump into the edge of the bed and he sits down. “Yeah, but I’ll be honest with you, I don’t remember exactly where it was. You might have to help me find it.”

“Oh, of course.” Derek’s grin gets wider and he reaches for the bottom of Stiles’s t-shirt. “I’ll take a close look. Now that you’re not in the ER unnecessarily.”

“Yeah, you should do that,” Stiles agrees, as Derek slowly pulls Stiles’s shirt up, stopping to make sure it doesn’t stick to any of the gashes. He pulls it over Stiles’s head and tosses it aside. 

“Better?”

“Just not having a house full of wolves is better,” Stiles says. He moves one arm and exhales sharply when the skin around one of the scratches pulls. 

“Careful,” Derek cautions, bending his head down and dragging his tongue over the offending scratch. 

“I’m always careful,” Stiles says. He runs his fingers through Derek’s hair and closes his eyes.

Derek starts to laugh. “I _know_ you, Stiles. You’re never careful.”

“I try to be careful?” Stiles offers.

“Still wrong,” Derek says, licking up a different gash. “So where’s the one I missed?”

“You know, I lost track of which ones you got,” Stiles says, tightening his fingers in Derek’s hair. “You should probably start over. And, uh. I _think_ about trying to be careful.”

“Do I look that gullible?” Derek asks, and this time when he licks, his tongue keeps going up Stiles’s neck. 

“Mmm. Yes, going to go with yes.”

“Did you actually register the question?” Derek moves to the other side of Stiles’s neck. “These are going to scar,” he adds, pulling back and frowning slightly. 

“Yeah, then I’ll look like a badass,” Stiles says. He puts his hand on the back of Derek’s neck and tugs him forward. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s a lot of scars,” Derek insists.

“No claws or fangs, remember? I need something impressive to scare the baddies.”

“And are you going to start walking around without clothes so you can scare them?” Derek asks, licking up the deepest scratch over and over. 

Stiles hooks a leg around Derek’s leg and tries to pull him forward more. “Tank tops and muscle shirts until it gets below sixty degrees.”

“Are they going to have more of your ridiculous slogans?” Derek asks as he obliges, sliding one arm around Stiles.

“Shut up. My shirts are awesome.”

“Oh, I’m sure your best friend’s mom appreciates the stripper one.” Derek nods a little. “Excellent choice.” Derek pulls them both down onto the bed. 

“Okay, so maybe I need some new ones,” Stiles concedes. “You got any suggestions?” He wraps his leg around Derek and digs his fingertips into the back of Derek’s neck.

“Little red riding hoodie?” Derek says with a grin. “You like that one?” He runs his tongue up Stiles’s neck and over his ear.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I—do more of that. No, _that_! That I, uh, like the implication of that,” Stiles says. “The wolf eats her up.”

“Exactly,” Derek says, biting at Stiles’s ear. “You’re being eaten up.” He doesn’t wait for Stiles to reply, just puts his mouth over Stiles’s, lips parted. 

Normally, Stiles has a reply for everything, but the best he can come up with in response to that is, “Oh,” because really, who is going to argue with logic like that?

Derek runs his tongue along Stiles’s lips, his other hand resting on the nape of Stiles’s neck, holding him in place. Stiles squirms away from Derek’s hand and nips at his lower lip, pulling the hair at the back of Derek’s head. Derek responds by kissing him more forcefully, the hand around Stiles’s waist moving in a slow circle.

“So what’s this eating up entail exactly?” Stiles asks when he pulls away to take a breath. Apparently mastery of breathing while making out takes a little more practice. “Any actual cannibalism, or were we just speaking euphemistically?”

“Which would you prefer?” Derek asks, grinning, and then he nips at Stiles’s neck. The hand on Stiles’s back comes around to the front of Stiles’s waistband, and Derek slides one finger underneath it.

“Which one means you keep doing that?” Stiles asks. “I want whichever one that is. Actual cannibalism is fine if you keep doing that.” Stiles wraps his other arm around Derek and moves his hand underneath Derek’s shirt, scraping his fingernail across Derek’s lower back.

“This?” Derek asks, biting down on the other side of Stiles’s neck, harder this time. “Or this?” He unbuttons Stiles’s jeans with one hand and leaves his hand resting beside the zipper.

“Both. We’ll go with both,” Stiles says. He pulls at Derek’s hair, pulls him closer. “Fuck, both is perfect.”

“Noted,” Derek says, kissing Stiles as he unzips Stiles’s jeans and then slides his hand inside Stiles’s boxers. Stiles immediately buries his fingernails into the back of Derek’s neck and his lower back, and arches up into Derek’s touch. Derek pushes his tongue into Stiles’s mouth,   
almost attacking him as he thrusts down against Stiles. 

Stiles yelps in a that-was-awesome way, because, well, that was awesome, but then he’s momentarily distracted by Derek still being completely dressed. He pulls his mouth away from Derek’s and says, “How are you still in a shirt? You go around without a shirt half the time, why are you in one now?”

Derek shrugs. “It seemed tacky to meet with the hunting clan with no shirt. Then there was the emergency room.” He leans up and pulls off his shirt. “Better, Stiles?”

Stiles puts on a serious face, which is way difficult with someone’s hand in his pants, for the record. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s better, but you could be nakeder. The Russian judges are probably going to mark you down some points for that.”

“Just the Russians?” Derek looks amused. “We probably both could be. Nakeder. Are you sure that’s a word?”

“Whatever. It’s a thing you should be.” Stiles pulls on the front of Derek’s jeans until he unfastens the button, then he slides the zipper down. “And of course you go commando. Why wouldn’t you? If I looked like you, I’d probably just walk around naked.”

“Would you walk around naked in front of the betas?” Derek asks, kicking off his jeans.

“Yeah, if I looked like you,” Stiles says. “So the betas would cry, who cares?”

Derek laughs, tugging at Stiles’s jeans. “That would make a lovely photograph,” he manages to say soberly. 

“Put it on the pack Christmas card,” Stiles says. He raises his hips off the bed so Derek can work his jeans off. 

“I really should have thought the—Batman, Stiles?”

“Shut up. They were a gift,” Stiles says. “Scott’s have Superman.”

“That is—” Derek cuts himself off and pulls off the Batman boxers. “Superhero discussion later.”

“Yeah, later,” Stiles agrees, as Derek licks the bottom edge of one gash on Stiles’s shoulder, then works his way down, dragging his tongue over the older scratches on Stiles’s stomach. “Much later. Oh, holy crap, later!” 

Derek mumbles something into Stiles’s stomach, moving lower, interspersing bites with licks. Stiles puts both his hands on the side of Derek’s head, not really holding him or directing him, just sort of hanging on for dear life.

“People teeth, not wolf teeth,” Stiles says under his breath. “People teeth, not wolf—no teeth! No teeth!”

“Pity, you wanted them earlier,” Derek says, lifting his head, then lowers it again. 

“No, I want, just not _there_ ,” Stiles quickly answers, though he’s pretty sure that if Derek keeps moving his mouth on him like that, Stiles would let him use people teeth, wolf teeth, any teeth he wanted on any part of Stiles he wanted to use them on. Stiles spreads his fingers on the sides of Derek’s head to keep from pulling hair, digging in his fingernails, _something_.

Derek runs his hand down Stiles’s chest, then picks it up and does it again, barely touching Stiles’s skin. His other hand flexes, fingers digging into Stiles’s hip. Stiles wants to close his eyes and lose himself, but he also wants to keep his eyes open and watch, so he settles for alternating. 

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Stiles says, still moving his fingers through Derek’s hair. “No, I probably don’t want to know. No, I just don’t want you to stop doing it to explain.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mutters, so Stiles shuts up. Over the last few days, Stiles has been concussed, clawed all the hell twice, took out a dude’s eye, ran off a pack of superwolves, and possibly declared himself the alpha of all the werewolves in Beacon Hills, and Derek’s mouth is still the stand-out experience for the week. Or Stiles’s entire lifetime.

Derek’s tongue wraps around him, his hands still moving against Stiles’s skin, and it feels almost like Derek is trying to say something. Whatever it is, though, Stiles can’t make it out, but he probably couldn’t make it out at this point even if Derek were saying it right into his ear. When Derek’s fingers dig into Stiles again, his claws pierce Stiles’s skin, and Stiles lets out a long, drawn-out cry that could probably give a howl a run for its money as he comes. 

Stiles goes completely boneless against his mattress, his hand falling away from Derek’s hair, and the best verbal response to that that he can manage is, “Holy shit.”

Derek chuckles for a moment, then runs his tongue over the marks he left on Stiles’s hip before lying down to the side of Stiles. Stiles closes his eyes and lies there for a few minutes, basking in the awesomeness that is afterglow. Finally, he rolls onto his side and looks at Derek, face serious.

“So... I decided something,” Stiles says.

“Did you?”

“Yeah. I decided I’m not going to be in your pack.”

“You’re not?” Derek doesn’t really sound upset, just amused. 

“Nope,” Stiles answers, making a little popping noise on the ‘p’. 

“I’m assuming you haven’t decided to join Peter’s, so what’s the rest of this announcement?”

Stiles snorts and scrunches up his face at the mention of Peter, then he explains, “I decided you can join _my_ pack. You know, if you want to.”

“And here I was under the impression I already had.”

“Figured we oughta make it formal and official,” Stiles says. “Think we can get everybody else on board?”

“I don’t think they’ll want to argue with you,” Derek agrees, running his hand over Stiles’s head. 

“Not if they’re smart,” Stiles says. “So, yeah, I guess Peter and Scott still might argue.”

Derek laughs, then stops suddenly. “Stiles? What time is your dad going to be home?”

“He doesn’t get off until five, so—oh shit.” Stiles looks over at his clock, which doesn’t seem to feel even remotely embarrassed about declaring it to be five-fifteen. “Oh, shit, this is not good. This is _not_ good.”

Derek rolls off the bed quickly, grabbing his jeans and tossing Stiles’s towards him. “He’s not inside yet,” Derek points out, though it doesn’t seem to make him slow down at all. Stiles looks around for his boxers, but can’t find them.

“Dude, where are my Batman boxers?”

Derek shrugs, looking unconcerned. “Your dad probably isn’t going to inspect you that thoroughly, Stiles.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, putting his jeans on without the boxers and then pulling his shirt over his head. “Well? Window! Go!”

“Stiles? Why is Derek Hale’s car parked in our driveway? And yes, I’m sure it’s his. Don’t tell me it’s a lookalike,” Stiles’s dad finishes. 

“Uh.” Stiles looks at Derek, who just shrugs again. Stiles whispers, “How much do I look like I’ve been fighting and fooling around with werewolves, on like a scale of one to my dad will kill us both?”

Derek grabs a shirt from the back of Stiles’s desk chair and hands it to him. “Put this on. Layers. You can probably hide the fighting part.”

“Stiles? I know you’re home.” There’s a pause. “Is Derek Hale here, Stiles?”

Stiles pulls the button-up shirt on over his t-shirt. “I’ll be out in a second, Dad!” he calls down, then turns to Derek and adds, more quietly, “Okay, don’t mention anything werewolfy. Or logs. Or anything.” 

“Right.” Derek nods. “No logs.”

“I’d like an explanation, Stiles!” There’s the sound of a few footsteps and then Stiles’s dad knocks on the bedroom door. “Stiles?”

“Uh, hang on!” Stiles double-checks his clothes and Derek’s clothes, then looks over at his severely rumpled bed and realizes maybe subtlety is a ship that’s long-since sailed. “Yeah, you may as well just come in, Dad,” he sighs.

The door opens and his dad, still in uniform, steps inside before pausing and looking around, between the bed, Stiles, and Derek. “Uh-huh. You want to explain this now, Stiles?”

“Well... Dad...” Stiles begins. “It’s, uh. It’s like this.”

“Like what, exactly?” He turns and looks at Derek. “Should I ask him instead?”

“No, Dad, you should not—you know, actually, sure,” Stiles says. “Derek. Would you like to explain to my Dad what you’re doing here?” He gives Derek a wide, toothy smile. “And how it’s totally for nothing illegal or unethical or nefarious, like, _at all_?”

“Are you sure you want me to do that, Stiles?” Derek asks, returning Stiles’s smile with a smug grin of his own. “That could have interesting consequences... for you.”

“Oh, no, I insist,” Stiles says. “I’d love to hear what you come up with.”

“Nevermind.” Stiles’s dad heaves a sigh. “I think I get it. Derek, are you staying for dinner?”

“No, he’s definitely not staying for din—”

“I’d love to, Sheriff,” Derek interrupts Stiles, grinning at him. “That’s very kind of you.”

Stiles stares at Derek, his mouth dropping open, then closing, then dropping open again in a disbelieving gape. 

“Stiles, close your mouth,” his dad says, shaking his head. “You look like a goldfish.”


End file.
